Flotsam and Jetsam
by Master Of All Imagination
Summary: In the aftermath of AWE Beckett washes up on the shores of a lonely island, scarred and blind, determined to find the Fountain of Youth and make himself whole again.  Beckett/OC
1. Dead But Not Dead

**A/N: ATTENTION: THIS STORY IS CURRENTLY BEING REWRITTEN. For the love of all things holy, go read the new rewrite The Second Rise of Cutler Beckett ( fanfiction net/ s/9521492/1/The-Second-Rise-of-Cutler-Beckett)**** instead of this old, poorly written version. Please and thank you.**

The wreckage had been washing up on the shore for days now. The timber was useful for cooing and building fires, but it was the bodies that got in the way. Stinking of fish left in the sun too long, the drowned Redcoats' coming was hailed by a rising cyclone of seabirds, pecking at their remains. I close my eyes and tie a kerchief around my nose as I do what's necessary. There are three bodies to be piled in the skiff today and taken round the leeward side of the island and out of the shelter of the bay.

I survey each body with pity. If I were a god-given wench I would pray for them, but god's got no place in the life of a fisherwoman, so I settle for gently closing their eyes before hauling them over the side of the skiff.

But as I come to the last fellow, a bloke around 30 or 40, I stop. Something about him is different. For one thing, though his clothes are badly torn and charred, I could tell he was dressed a lot nicer than the other's I've seen. For another, it's the manner of his death that draws my attention.

Whereas all the other young British Navy men were clearly either stabbed, shot or drowned, this one's got not a wound on him. Well, then again, that's speaking relatively, as his whole face is covered in horrible burns and seems hardly like a face at all, more like something half eaten the dogs bring back from the jungle some nights.

And for another, his body's not all bloated and water-logged like the other sailors were. A faint suspicion rises in me. So far everyone who'd washed up on my bay was dead, but what if this man had survived?

I had raised him into a sitting position while deliberating whether or not to toss him overboard with the rest when I saw his eyelids flutter.

I am taken aback, and my hand goes automatically to my paring-knife by my side, but I chide myself for being silly. The man is obviously, by some miracle of fate, still alive, but even if he were to have violent designs on me, he was in no state to carry them out.

I guess all these years living alone, without father, have made me paranoid. Fending for myself, nary a contact with another human soul has made me strong, but sometimes I wonder if father was wrong about the world being such an awful place.

The dead-but-not-dead man in front of me suddenly coughs, splutters, and retches up a stomach's worth of seawater.

"There, there, easy now. I can't quite tell what happened to ya, but I can see you've had quite a time of it." The man spoke through white, salt-dried lips.

"Who are you? Where am I? Where's Jones, what happened-" he tries to move, but his body is so weak he can barely stir. I figure this would be a good time to get back to my hut on the bay, so I grab the oars of the skiff and start rowing, keeping one eye on the man and one on the shore.

"Say, what's your name, anyway?" He looks at me- or at least tries to- like I'm an imbecile. Dunno what I've done to deserve that.

"I'm Lord Cutler Beckett. You don't recognize me?" I scoff.

"I daresay not, not with what's been done to your face." When I mention his face his hands creep up to feel it, and when he does, it's like pain has suddenly dropped from the sky and right onto his shoulders. He falls back on the bench of the skiff and moans,

"Argh! The pain- my leg is bloody killing me-" and indeed, it should be, for it's only now I remember the piece of wood impaled in his calf that I first noticed hauling him aboard. I figure shock and fatigue have taken the edge off, not to mention dehydration and starvation, for I've no idea how long he's been adrift at sea nor how much blood he's lost. I row faster, for it's clear if he's to be saved I'll need to exercise what little first aid skills I have as quickly as possible.

I tear off some fabric from the hem of my ratty dress and tie it above the wound to try and stop some of the bleeding. Lord Cutler Beckett makes no sound, and I realize he's passed out again.

It's no mean feat to carry him ashore without jarring his leg, and I'm not sure I am very gentle, for he moans once or twice as I drag him to the hut.

It's a sorry thing, but my dad and I built it with our bare hands almost ten years ago. It's got three rooms, the main room/kitchen in the middle and then my room to the left of it and father's off to the right.

I haven't used dad's room in ages, but I supposed the musty sheets on the long unslept-in bed will have to do.

I set Lord Cutler Beckett down harder than I mean to and he wakes up. I can see the pain in his eyes, and I feel the kind of pity I feel when one of the dogs has a sliver up his foot. I'm gonna treat this here lord like I do the dogs, I decide: just pull it out fast and no one will remember the next morning.

"_But this ain't a sliver, and he ain't a dog," _a voice in my head whispers. I tell it to shush and I make preparations. Clean cloths, boiling water, a stick for him to bite, some rum for disinfecting, some cool water for the burns on his face and hands. I momentarily hesitate before I use my knife to cut off what remains of his trousers, but I figure, what's modesty when a man's life is at stake?

Lord Cutler Beckett is looking at me now, something akin to fear joining the pain that I already see in his sightless eyes.

"What are you going to do?" he asks with impeccable English diction.

"I've gotta get this 'ere piece of wood out of your leg. This is gonna hurt, but no more than it did goin' in, I'd imagine. In any case, take this." I press the stick into his hands and he seems confused. Honestly, do these proper English men know nothing about field medicine?

"You bite it," I instruct, demonstrating. "It's for the pain." Now I know there's fear in his eyes but he doesn't flinch or hesitate, just does as he's told and nods for me to continue. I grasp the wood at the top and slowly work it up and out of his leg. His muscles contract with the pain and I tell him to relax. Once the foot-long plank is out, I breath a sigh of relief. The hard part is over.

Now time for the cloths, water and rum. My hands are slick with blood and it's all over my dress now too, and I think ruefully that it'll be the flames for this one when I'm through.

I clean the would best I can and bind it up tight to try and stop the bleeding. I'm sure it's going to fester, though, as he's been at sea who knows how long and I am certain even a skilled nurse would be hard pressed to stave off infection. Sighing, I turn my attention to his face.

Whatever happened to that ship made a ravage of his face. His skin is black, blistered and burned, his eyebrows, lashes, and most of his hair are charred off. Strangely though his lips are intact, and I study them wile I apply cooling water to his burns. They are soft, well-formed, yet I would say with a cruel tilt to them. His eyes are sightless, destroyed by whatever burned him. It is a strange sort of mercy that the fates have not spared his eyes. When- if- his burns heal, his face will not be a pretty sight.

I know he is dehydrated, so as soon as I have finished wrapping his face in clean linen swaths I get him some water from the spring out back. He gulps it eagerly, and I have to restrain him, for I know that to much water at once in a dehydrated body will make a man sick. I hold the cup and press it gently to his lips while I slip a hand behind his neck to support him. His bandaged hands wrap around mine, holding the cup steady.

He says thanks as I retreat to the kitchen for more water and some food. It is like taking care of a baby, feeding the helpless man before me. I wonder who he is. Lord Cutler Beckett- a name and a title. What good does that do me?

I could ask, but the poor man is out like a light in heavy sleep the instant he has finished the last morsel of bread. I cover him with the blankets and leave the hut.

The sun is setting and I call for Tuck and Bull. The dogs come charging out of the jungle at my call, each carrying something tasty in its mouth for supper. I set the remainder of the water in the kettle over the firepit out front to boil so I can cook the rabbit and quail they've brought. An idea hits me. Lord Cutler Beckett shall need clothes once he has healed. I had scrounged some of the items of drowned soldier's clothing that still seemed usable, as I had only three dresses of my own. Dresses were expensive, and I only made trips to the mainland to resupply and sell my meager wares every half year.

The red and blue jackets, trousers, and boots are tucked in a small lean to with the wood against the back of the house. I pick the nicest of them and carry them inside with me, laying them at the foot of the bed. Lord Cutler Beckett still sleeps peacefully, dead to the world. I imagine he will stay that way for a few days at least. It gives me pause to ponder- had I really thought this through? I, a woman alone on an island, barely with the means to support herself. Cut off from the world by choice, passing the days in chores and meaningless rambles over the island. Plenty of time for daydreaming, but naught much else.

How would a full grown man, a _lord_, take to this lifestyle? He wouldn't. And he will want to go to the mainland before long. Sure, he'll be grateful to me for saving his life, but really, what will be the consequence of that?

I had not thought this through, and for a moment, I almost regret not chucking him off the edge of the skiff with the others. Then I shake myself mentally, admonishing myself,

"_But to be a killer? You have done the right thing. And who knows. This man may turn out to be less of a burden than you anticipate." _It is true that on some days it is all I can do to successfully keep my house in order. And I have perennially dreaded what would happen should I someday fall ill.

Dinner is ready, and I am about to eat it straight from the pot when I think twice. I dish it onto a wooden plate and carry it into my father's old room.

The man is awake, which I had not expected. When I offer him my food he takes it eagerly. When he tries to get up, though, he falls back against the bed in weakness.

I come to his side and I am taking care of a baby again. I see the resentment in his eyes at the way he is being fed like a child, but damned be his pride if he wishes to survive. Between bites he asks,

"What is your name?"

"Winnifred Dayne, at your service. Are you feeling any better?"

"My leg hurts like hell, frankly, and my face feels like its on fire. I have not eaten in at least three days, so whatever you are feeding me at the moment tastes like heaven. What is it?"

"Rabbit quail stew," I respond, waiting for his reaction.

"Quail, eh? Haven't had one of those since I left England. Where are we? And how do you have quail in this season?"

"You're on a small island in the Caribbean. I'm not sure exactly where. I have lived here alone for…" I trail off. I don't actually know how long it's been since father died. The years, months, seasons, have all blurred together in the beautiful blue of the sea that occupies all my days. I suppose its been at least ten years, for my body has grown much taller and the dogs are beginning to show marked signs of age. "A while," I finish.

"I see. And how did I come to be here?"

"You washed up on shore this afternoon. I thought you were dead, like the rest, but you weren't."

"The rest?"

"Aye. Bodies 'ave been washin' up on shore all week, along with a load of debris."

"Miss Dayne-" I cut him off.

"Winnifred, if you please. I'll not stand on ceremony when its only us two to consider."

"Winnifred, then. Do you have any way of contacting the rest of the world?"

"Well, Lord Cutler Beckett…" he smiles. It is a nice smile. I don't find his mouth cruel anymore.

"Call me Beckett." I smile too, even though I know he can't see.

"I row to the mainland every half year. That's the only time I leave the island, if you don't count my daily fishing trips."

"So you live here alone? Why?"

"It wasn't always just me. It used to be me and my dad, making a living away from the cruelty of the world. That's what he always described the outside world as. Cruel." I realize I am waxing poetic, and I stop. "But he's dead now," I say, blunt and to the point.

"I'm sorry," Beckett says. He sounds genuinely sorry. "I agree with your father." I look up at him sharp-like.

"You what?"

"I agree with him. The world is a cruel place. Even when it seems like everything is going according to plan, fate throws a wrench in." He sighs. "I'm blind, aren't I?" He says, abruptly changing the subject. I wonder what cruel turn, besides the obvious injuries, fate has dealt him. It would be rude to inquire so I just answer,

"I'm afraid so." There is a silence pregnant with pity. He finishes the stew, and I am painfully aware that this man will not be able to eat by himself for a long time. I wonder once more what kind of a burden I have taken on myself before I take the dogs in, clean up the dinner, and go to bed. I have no appetite for my share of the stew.

**A/N: My first POTC fan fiction. I originally started writing this only for my own enjoyment, but I figured that other people might like it too and decided to post it. Constructive criticism is appreciated, because I rarely write in first person and have never written in present tense before. For some reason though this story demands to be told that way, and who am I to argue with my muse?**


	2. Fever

Morning dawns. I shall never tire of the sight of an orange sky contrasting the blue of the ocean. Normally I go out on the skiff first thing and catch breakfast, but there's stew from last night and I am reluctant to leave Beckett alone. No matter his enfeebled state, I cannot fully trust him. Not yet. Thinking of him prompts me to go and check on his progress.

As soon as I step into the room, it is clear something is wrong. His brow is beaded with sweat and he is shivering uncontrollably. It is as I feared- the wound has festered.

Into the kitchen and back again with cloths and cool water, I press them to his forehead. I strip back the sheets and he shivers even more, but I must see to the dressing of his leg. When I unwind the bandage I can see it is red, swollen and infected. Rum in hand I douse it liberally, gently cleaning it out with another clean cloth.

Father died from a fever. He lay in bed for weeks and had me lay cold compresses on his forehead while drinking a steady flow of water. He said it flushes out the sickness. He died alone in the night. It did not work then, and I do not believe it will work now, but I have no other recourse and so I fill a pitcher with water and bring it in the room.

I know I am to spend all day at his side if I want to save him. I know I want to save him, but I do not know why. I tell myself it is the same instinct that would return a baby bird fallen out of its nest to its mother, but I know it is more than that. Beckett intrigues me. He is the only man I have ever met besides my father. He washed up on shore, the only survivor out of hundreds of bodies. I want to save him, if only to find out where he came from and who he is. And maybe- just maybe- I need to save him because I could not save my father. I need to save him because I cannot bear to see another man die of the same sickness in the same bed because of my malpractice.

I have sat by Beckett's side for three hours, mostly reading or thinking, and only now does he speak.

"Winnifred," he rasps. I lean over him quickly, a cup of water ready at my hand.

"Here, drink this," I instruct. Beckett is momentarily a child before his pride takes over once more.

"I haven't had a chance to thank you yet. For everything. I want you to know how grateful-" I interrupt.

"Do not thank me until you are well again. You have a fever borne of an infection, and I have seen it kill before. But I will do everything in my power to keep you alive." I open my book again and begin to read. Beckett asks me,

"Is that a book I hear?"

"Yes."

"What is it called?"

"It's Shakespeare's Macbeth." Beckett smiles.

"I did not expect you to have an appreciation for literature, Winnifred."

"I don't, really. It was my father's. I much prefer prose to plays." Beckett seems to hesitate.

"Could you read some to me?" he asks quietly, a shiver giving a slight stutter to his words. I have never read aloud before, but I say yes anyways and begin.

Beckett is smiling by the time, a half hour later, I must stop, for my mouth has gone dry.

"You read most expressively, Winnifred," he compliments me. I smile in spite of myself. Having never done this before I am gratified to know I am decent at it.

"You should rest. I am going to go out for a bit, but I'll be back as soon as possible." Beckett nods, but as I turn to leave, he says,

"Winnifred, wait. I'm cold." I turn back and place my book on the chair, drawing the blankets tighter around his form. Then I remember the clothes I put aside for him yesterday, and I run and fetch them.

"If you put these on you'll be more comfortable. If you need help…" Beckett is shakily getting out of bed, and I place the clothes in his outstretched hand. I am sure his pride resents my offer of help, but a blind, sick man cannot dress himself.

I quickly help him slip into the sailor's uniform, and he winces only once when I accidentally graze his wound. Then I help him back into bed and tuck the sheets close around him, leaving the book where it is and going out to the bay for my daily fishing trip. Looks as though I've been forced to give him my trust a lot sooner than I had predicted.

My hands go through the familiar motions of untying the skiff and casting off. I have done this day in and day out for years and the movements are as easy as lacing up bootstrings. Once I'm out of the bay, with the warm sea breeze blowing brown hair into my face, I can think clearly. I cast my nets and as I wait for my catch, I have time to consider my problem.

There is a man in my hut. The man is injured. I know only one thing about this man: his name is Beckett. I have taken this man into my home, given him shelter, food, clothes, and care. Will he be grateful for it? Once he is better, he will no doubt want to return to the civilized world. I suppose that won't be a problem, as my skiff can easily carry him across the miles of water to the port where I resupply. Yet if he leaves the island, my secret will no longer be safe. A duplicitous Beckett may reveal the secret location of the island paradise that my father and I have kept for half our lives.

I am casting aspersions on his character when I quite frankly know nothing of it. I know I am a fairer person than that. I think no more on these subjects as I reel in the nets, pleased to see a half dozen fish entwined in its rope mesh. But as I look, I perceive there is something else also.

At first I classify it merely as debris from the shipwreck, but as I lift it out to toss it overboard I realize it is a man's walking stick. It has a bronze top knob that has turned slightly green from the seawater and an ebony body that, were it not for the ravages of the sea, would have been quite fine and expensive. I heft it in my hands and consider it appraisingly.

When Beckett's leg is almost healed, he may find a cane to be invaluable in getting around. I place it in the skiff thoughtfully and unlock the oars, preparing to row back. The sun has reached its zenith and I must gut and clean my catch quickly if it is not to spoil under the hot Caribbean sun.

When I walk back inside the hut and lay down the fish in the kitchen I can hear sound coming from Beckett's room. I listen closely and I discern his voice.

Quickly I throw open the door to find Beckett in the throws of delirium, rambling away like a madman. I swiftly gather my poor excuse for medicine and bring it in, bathing his brow in cool water and murmuring to him comfortingly as I once did for father.

"The Dutchman… Jones… no…" I have no idea what these ramblings mean but they cause his mouth to narrow to a thin line. Suddenly he lashes out with a hand, as if to stop something. I restrain him, but it takes an effort, and for a man who almost drowned he is surprisingly strong.

"Just… good business. It's just good business! Good business, I tell you! My god, man, what have you done? What have you done? What have you-" his ramblings are cut off with a cry of pain as his thrashings jar his wound. It is all I can do to keep him still. Lashing him to the bed seems the best idea, given the circumstances, and I make a dash for the lean to where I keep the spare hemp. As I return he seems to have quieted, but I shall not take any chances. I pass the rope around his arms and ankles, pinning him to the bed.

Cool water drips onto my wrist as I dip the cloth into a basin and hold it to his forehead. It is messy business as his head is covered in burns, but I know of no other way to calm a fever and so I persist. If I were a praying wench, I would pray. Instead I sing, in a vain attempt to comfort him.

_If only if only a seaman returned _

_from beyond the watery grave_

_The I would be at your side, my dear, _

_a most devoted young slave._

_Heigh, ho, sea oh,_

_The sky is stormy and gray._

_Heigh, ho, sea, oh,_

_The fisherman's lost his way. _

The old sea shanty seems oddly fitting. It is one of my favorites, something my father liked to sing while out on the water.

I repeat the verse and Beckett is calming down. Occasionally he mutters a word or two, but otherwise silence has returned. I retreat to the kitchen to clean the fish, keeping the door open and still singing softly. Soon the sizzling of fish fills the air. I season it with what is left of the curry powder, which I did not know I was low on. That means it is nearing the six month deadline and I know I shall have to return soon to the mainland for supplies. Suddenly I am faced with a problem: the mainland voyage takes a day round trip. I cannot leave Beckett that long.

It is a good thing he hardly eats, as I doubt I can sustain another mouth's drain on my resources. In lack of a better option I find I must put off the trip, at least until my patient is no longer feverous. For both our sakes, I hope it does not last longer than a week. Then again, I have the feeling if the fever raged unchecked he would not live out the week in any case. I tuck in to the fish, glad for a silent house.

I know I am not going to get anything else done today with a sick man in the next room. I sigh and resign myself to a bedside vigil.

**A/N: Review? Please? Pretty please with a cherry on top? I have one more chapter halfway done, but I will not write more unless I feel like someone is actually going to read it!**


	3. Beckett's Story

**A/N: From now on, paragraphs in italics indicate Beckett's thoughts, which are written in past tense. Just so's ya know.**

It is four days until his fever abates, and not a day too soon. My trip to port cannot be delayed any longer. I find Beckett awake and lucid, his short figure seemingly even smaller from the wasting effects of sickness and starvation.

"Beckett, I'm running dangerously low on supplies. I'm off to port to get more. It will take me a day and a half, tops. I'm warning you just so's you can be prepared for anything in my absence. The dogs can take care of themselves and the house doesn't need any maintenance, so you're free to just rest until I return."

"No." I feel as though I've been slapped. I wasn't asking him, I was telling him.

"What did you just say?"

"I said, 'no.' I shall not be staying behind while you go off. I'm coming with you." I shoot him down immediately.

"You ain't in no state to even leave your _bed,_ let alone take the trip to port. 'Sides, there'll be no room for two in the skiff once it's loaded up with provisions." Beckett's mouth is a thin line.

"You will take me with you, nevertheless."

"No, I won't," I say, in the tone I reserve for the dogs when they're being stubborn.

"You cannot keep me here against my will!" A wry smile twists my face as I realize I have the upper hand.

"Ah, and do you see any other boats around here that can take you away? Because the only one I know of is tied up to the dock outside, and it is _mine._ My boat, my rules. You are not coming." Beckett is defeated; I see it in the way his shoulders slump almost imperceptibly.

"Winnifred, though I am deeply grateful for everything you have done for me, I cannot stay here. My body rebels at inactivity. It is not my nature to sit idly while the world turns, nor is it easy for me to be here, cut off from the world. I must return to my life, try to salvage some of it from the wreckage it has no doubt become-"

"Who are you?" I say, cutting him off abruptly.

"Excuse me?" he says, stunned as can be.

"I said, 'who are you.' I want to know exactly who it is I've saved from death twice over." Beckett clearly wasn't expecting this. I wasn't even expecting it; the man has a right to his privacy, and I have none to pry. I do not know what prompted my outburst, but the question has been swirling around inside of me for so long like some misguided eddy it just had to be let out. To my surprise he sits up and begins a tale that astonishes me.

"I am Lord Cutler Beckett. That much you know already. I worked for- no, I _was_ the East India Trading Company. I controlled it. And with me at its helm, the East India Trading Company ruled the seas. We already had Davy Jones under our control-"

"Davy Jones?" I interrupt. "As in Davy Jones's locker? That's just a fishwife's tale."

"You are mistaken. He is very real. He had fallen in love with a woman and could not bear his love, and so he cut out his heart and locked it in a chest. Through a convoluted series of events I came to have control over the heart, and so leverage over Jones. His ship the _Flying Dutchman_ became a part of the Company's armada, truly a terrifying force.

"There was only one last threat to the peace of the seven seas, and that was the pirates. I had a man on the inside summon up the nine pirate lords for a last stand. They were outnumbered ten to one, and with the full strength of the armada at my back there was no way on this earth the battle should have gone as it did. At the last moment a maelstrom blew up, sucking down into it the enemy's flagship along with the _Dutchman._ It seemed as though the _Dutchman _was swallowed up whole by the sea, but it resurfaced a few minutes later, and you can imagine my astonishment when it turned on me. Both it and the _Black Pearl_ sailed towards us, cannons ready, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

"I had been betrayed by Jones, and as all around me the ship was being torn to splinters there was nothing I could do to stop it. The last I remember is being thrown overboard as an explosion rocked the deck, and then waking up in your boat however many days later. I have no idea the fate of the armada, or the pirate lords, and I fear the East India Trading Company, if it still remains, is in shambles. Do you see now why I have to go back? Why I must leave this place?"

This new information sinks in quickly. I know of the East India Trading Company. Their symbol is stamped into the bottom of every container of spice in my kitchen. It dawns on me the power the man before me once held. And I fully realize how far he has fallen. His power is broken and his position is lost, and even if he were to return he is believed dead and open arms would not welcome him. I am surprised that he has deluded himself into thinking he could return, blind and maimed, and no questions asked resume what power he once had. If he will not face the truth, I must, if only to impress it upon him at a later date. Beckett is a broken man. A mere shadow of his former glory. He has only a past, and if he wishes to have a future he must let go of it. I tell him softly the best words of comfort my mind can conceive.

"My father said to me, many times, that here on this island, all that you were on the mainland is meaningless. He came here to start over, and he never looked back. From what you've told me, it doesn't sound as if you have much to go back to. If I can make a suggestion… maybe you should start over too."

_Beckett longed to look at her, gauge her expression, and see what emotion was reflected in her eyes. Was it concern? Pity? Or contempt? Her even tone of voice betrayed nothing. And yet her words struck a chord somewhere deep within him. A possibility he had never before pondered blossomed in front of his eyes: starting over. Letting go of his old life and embracing a new one. But a new life… of what? What could he be besides a lord? He knew nothing else. Nevertheless the notion had taken hold inside of him, and it did not fade, though he pushed it away._

Beckett sits in silence for a long time, and I do not think he will respond. I press my lips together and quietly leave the room. I do not think he even notices.

There are preparations to be made for my journey tomorrow and I set about them, whistling a tuneless melody. The sun sets slowly in a wash of red light and as I am about to fall asleep, the last thing I wonder is what Beckett's thoughts were when I told him to start over.

**A/N: Sorry this chapter is so short, I promise the next one will be longer. Or maybe the one after that. I hope all my mentions of "the island" are not starting to sound too much like Lost. Believe me, no connection is intended. Winnifred's island is not mysterious or evil, it just happens to be secret and hidden, but the resemblance ends there. As always, I require some positive encouragement to continue this, as I have no more written and I will only write more if my readers ask for it. Also, constructive criticism is appreciated, as I only write to become better! Thank you so much for reading!**


	4. At Port

I leave early in the morning, and when I go to say goodbye to Beckett he is not yet awake. I close the door softly behind me and load up the skiff.

Barrels of salted fish, small game from the island, and some small gold coins my father left me go into the skiff one after the other. It bobs low with the weight as I climb in, take up the oars, and begin the journey to the mainland.

My arms are strong from years of rowing, but the journey taxes me nevertheless. As the huge landmass looms into view and I dock at my usual, quiet berth, Brother James comes to greet me. He's a nice enough fellow, though not much for brains. I suppose that's why he's a monk. Brother James and I have a routine, you see. I arrive on the half-year mark; he helps me unload my boat and carry my wares to the market, and then helps me load up my provisions. He asks no questions about where I come from or where I go, and that is invaluable to me. But today I can see something uneasy about his mien, and though he's not really one for talking I have to ask,

"Brother, what's the matter?" He draws closer and takes my hand in his, patting it softly.

"These are bad times, Winnifred, bad indeed. Since the downfall of the East India Company, port tariffs have skyrocketed and trade has slowed to a trickle. I'm afraid you are too late this year for the market, and you will have a tough time of it plying your wares 'round town." I think of Beckett, and I know the truth of Brother James's words.

"Makes no matter. Even when the trade's been rough I've always managed to scrape by."

"Ah, but Winnifred, there _is_ no trade. Since the East India Company folded, we haven't had any shipments come in. Event the townsfolk are hard pressed. I'm afraid you'll have to go somewhere else for your supplies this time."

The news hits me like a fist to the gut. This is the only port within leagues; does he think I can just _go somewhere else?_

"Impossible, Brother. I can't pilot the skiff naught but here."

"Let me help you. One of the Brothers at the monastery is taking a journey over land to the far side of this island to see if Port Shelter has anything to trade. He's leaving by cart an hour or two from now, and I think I can pull some strings and get you a ride along." I shake my head.

"Can't be gone for more than the day, I'm afraid. Gotta be getting' back before this time tomorrow."

"Come now, Winnifred, surely the dogs can be on their own for a few days," he says, slightly questioningly.

"Nay, it's not the dogs I'm worried about. There be an injured man a-sharing' me hut nowadays, and I can't leave him." Brother James gets a look about him as I say this, and I can see clearly the worry on his face.

"Now, now, Miss Dayne, do you think it _wise_, a young woman like yourself alone on an island with a strange man for company? Seems to me a bit imprudent, if you get my meaning."

"It was either take him in or leave the poor sucker to drown, and I wairn't about to let him drown, now was I? And he is in no fit state to even leave his bed, so I don't think he will be givin' me much trouble," I respond with steel in my voice. Brother James nods slowly, holding eye contact. I know he is only trying to look out for me, but the fact of the matter is I haven't needed anyone to look after me for many years.

"Well, Winnifred, it seems you have a problem. No provisions to speak of and an extra mouth to feed at that. I'll tell you what. Leave your catch here and I'll send it along with Brother David when he goes to the far side of the mainland and have him bring back whatever you need. Sound good?"

"Aye, James, you're a lifesaver," I say, relief blossoming in me. "Here, lemme draw up a list for ya of what I need." We head inside the monastery to deliberate further.

As we are wrapping up our negotiations, a question springs into mind, borne of a curiosity I did not know I possessed.

"Brother, do you know anything about how the East India Company met their downfall?"

"No one quite knows, Winnifred, and let me tell you it's caused a lot of chaos. Some of the brothers have heard say that the Company went after the nine pirate lords in an attempt to rid the seas of their ilk once and for all, but that it went badly wrong. Others say Calypso, the sea goddess, unleashed her wrath upon the armada and destroyed it. Bollocks, in my opinion. All I know for certain is that their flagship, the _Endeavor, _and its captain, Lord Cutler Beckett, are nowhere to be found."

My ears perk up at Beckett's name.

"Who is this Lord Beckett?" Brother James shoots me a funny look.

"I forget you don't get out much," he says, shifting slightly in his seat. "Beckett was the most powerful man in the whole company, and for the last few years with him at the helm, the East India Company has dominated the seas. It was quite a blow to lose him, and it has contributed to the downfall of the company immensely."

A stirring of guilt pricks my gut. Perhaps I was wrong to have denied Beckett his return to the mainland. The world seems to be tumbling apart without him.

"It would seem that the sooner Beckett returns the sooner the company can recover." Brother James gives me that look again.

"Have you been listening, lass? The East India Company is ruined! Broke! Downfallen! Even if by some miracle the man was still alive, there'd be no company to go back TO!" A breeze blows in the open windows of the monastery and with it goes my guilt. It is high time I returned to the island. I have no doubt my newly acquired information will be of much interest to Beckett.

We say no more of the subject and when I emerge, the plans are all set for the supply exchange and I can return to the island a half a day early. Brother James's offer to stay for lunch tempts me sorely, but I remember Beckett lying in bed alone without any food at all and I politely refuse.

Having made the voyage to the mainland twice in one day, I am as tuckered as a migrating whale and my arms are as floppy as seaweed. I long to fall on my bed and surrender my fatigue to sleep, but it is not to be, for I have business to attend to.

When I open the door to Beckett's room (strange, that it is no longer "father's room" but "Beckett's"), I find him lying in bed, hands folded over the quilt, staring unseeing at the ceiling. He starts at my entrance, and out of reflex his head whips around to look at me.

"Winnifred?" he asks.

"It's me," I say, taking my usual chair by his bedside. I swear, I have not ever sat as much in a day until I had this sick man to contend with.

"I thought you weren't to be back for a day," he queries, and I sigh.

"It's a bad news/good news situation, I'm afraid. Bad news is that I know the fate of the East India Trading Company." I reach out and grasp his hand. Father always did it for me when I was scared, and though I know Beckett to be above that, he still wasn't going to like my news one bit.

"What is it?" He demands in response to my touch. His whole body is tense and with an effort, he sits up.

"The company's gone, Beckett," I tell him evenly. "It has been utterly destroyed. I have a friend at port, a monk by the name o' Brother James, and he told me that the world thinks you're dead and the company has died with you. Even if you were to return, there is nothing for you anymore. I'm so sorry."

For a man who's just been told his life is in shambles, he is outwardly calm and shows no sign of emotion except for his grip briefly tightening on my hand.

_He had feared as much. Beckett had so hoped to hear something, anything else from Winnifred's lips, but it was not to be. But he had a contingency plan. He always had a contingency plan. It had been just a rumor when he set off to confront the pirate lords, but he was determined to make it a fact. From the same lips that he had heard of the existence of Davy Jones's chest, so had he learned the location of another mythical object: the Fountain of Youth. He had planned to keep it a secret for as long as possible and exploit it in the name of the British Empire, but now he had a more compelling use for it: himself. And so with the death of one hope came the blooming of another: Beckett had resolved to find the Fountain- mermaid tears, chalices and all- and make himself whole again. _

"What will you do?" I ask.

"If I may have your hospitality, I ask permission to stay here until I am fully recovered."

"Of course," I acquiesce. As I hear him phrase his request, I feel a strange happiness that my unexpected visitor is not yet to leave me. Though I have always prized my solitude, I think I have been lonely too long, or why else should I feel so elated that Beckett is staying? I know, however, that it cannot be for forever, so I ask,

"What about afterwards?" He hesitates only briefly before saying,

"I don't know. I suppose I must cross that bridge when I come to it."

_Beckett knows not why he is lying to Winnifred. Even if he admitted his true goals to her, it is not as if she would be tempted to leave this island life she so loves. After all, a quest for the fountain of youth is not an easy task. Though Beckett is also unsure of how _he _will manage the journey, seeing that even when his wounds heal, he will be blind and scarred. Inwardly, he sighs. As he told Winnifred, he supposed that he would simply have to cross that bridge when he comes to it._

We are silent for a minute, and I cam about to leave when he asks,

"And what about the good news?"

"Oh, yeah," I say, jogging my memory. "Even though there ain't any trade to be had at port, Brother James arranged so that our supplies will come from the town across the island. I'll return in a week or so to pick 'em up." And with that, I leave, and it may be the exhaustion getting to me, but I could swear that as I pull my hand out of Beckett's, he hesitates, holding on for a second longer than normal. I consider the implications of this, then shake my head: I need to sleep.

**A/N: Ah, the beginnings of a romance are stirring! I figured it was high time they showed themselves, seeing as it is under the "romance" category. Stay tuned for more! Also, let me renew my perennial request for reviews and thank Isen-norden-ss for her support and lovely feedback!**


	5. Winnifred's Story

I returned one week later and picked up the supplies Brother James promised me. Since then three months have passed. The first month, Beckett's burns were half healed. The second month, they were reduced to red scars and his leg was well enough he could get out of bed and limp around the room with the aid of the cane I had found for him and sit in a chair for stretches of time. Now, three months later, the only use he has for the cane is to feel his way about the house. I figure it is time for a little exercise.

I am in a cheery mood when I throw open the door to Beckett's room. He is sitting in the chair, and I am surprised by how… _normal _he looks. He is dressed in a dark waistcoat and embroidered jacket, impeccably clean according to his own high standards. Gloves on his hands hide the scars there and his face, similarly hidden with white linen that leaves only his mouth visible, no longer serves the purpose of bandage but of mask to hide the sightless eyes and ruined flesh. I had even fished a wig that was more or less intact out of the briny ocean, and he wore it now, the perfect picture of elegance.

"Good morning, Beckett," I greet him kindly, touching his shoulder to let him know where I am. It has become part of our routine so he knows where to turn his head. He's so good at it by now that sometimes I'm fooled into thinking that he can see me, even though I know its all an act.

"And good morning to you, Winnifred. If I am not mistaken, you are in high spirits today." He has also become uncannily adept at reading my tone and inflections to gauge my mood. He's a right cunning fellow, making up for those senses he's lost in other ways.

"You're right, I am. It's because I have a question to ask you."

"Ask, then."

"Would you like…" I pause, just a bit dramatically. I can't resist. "To go for a walk?" I finish, hope clinging to my breath and holding it inside of me. I expel it when his mouth breaks into a smile.

"I think it a wonderful idea. I would much like to feel the wind on my skin again, even if I shan't see the sky." Excitement floods me as I grab up his stick and thrust it into his hand.

"Great! The weather is fine and I have nothing to do this morning, so let's go!"

He hasn't been out of the house since I first rescued him three months ago. We step out, but as soon as he puts weight on the cane, (which he still uses to support his leg, more out of habit than necessity) it sinks deep into the sand.

"What happened?" he demands to know. I know that he is impatient because of his sightlessness, but I wish he would not take that tone with me. Almost as if he were my commander, and I only a lackey.

"I don't think the cane will work on the sand; it keeps sinking in." I toss it to the doorway of the hut and ponder for a moment how best to guide Beckett down the beach. "Take my arm," I say, placing his hand lightly on my forearm. "Just follow my lead and I will guide you." He nods, and we take our first halting, limping steps together.

Beckett walks slowly and unsurely, but after we have gone 20 feet or so he has gained confidence in my lead and walks as fast as his limp will allow. A smile takes over half of his mouth. It is a lopsided blessing, for he so rarely smiles.

As the tide washes up its daily detritus I spot something glinting in the sand a few feet away.

"Wait here, Beckett, I'll be right back." I have broken away from his hand before he can react and like a magpie I seek out the shiny object.

Damn. Only a worthless button. Hopes for an extra coin to spend at port are quickly dashed. Walking back to Beckett I see he is rooted to the spot, casting about as though he can still see. He puts a hand out when he hears me draw closer, seeking me. His hand connects with mine as I reach out my arm and he visibly relaxes.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"Don't leave me again, Winnifred," he tells me in that calm, commanding, British way of his. "You know I cannot see without you." Though his callous tone makes me bristle, I soften when he adds, "You are my eyes now. I don't want to lose my sight twice over." I smile; I can't help myself. He notices.

"Why are you silent? Are you smiling?" He raises his free hand to my mouth and gently traces the curve of my lips.

"Aye, I'm smiling, Beckett."

As we walk back to the hut he keeps a firm hold on my hand, as if he's afraid I will go away again. I don't think I will make that mistake twice. Suddenly though he stops short, tugging me along with him. I stop also, and though I know the quizzical look I favor him with is lost on him I do it anyways. As if he could see me, he quickly answers my unspoken question.

"Winnifred, I have been wondering for some time now, and I think it time I asked. What is your story? You know mine forwards and back. How did you come to live on this lonely, god forsaken bit of land?"

It is only fair I tell him, after he told me his story. An eye for an eye, a taste of your own medicine. Aye, but it is not so sweet going down your own throat as it is forcing it down someone else's. I swallow my reluctance and prepare to confess my story, for after three months with this man I trust him and feel I owe it to him to repay his honesty.

"My story? It's the same as your story, only a chapter short. My family once was great, but it has fallen far.

"It started with me father. He was born a noble in England. He was married to a woman, but she'd married him for his money, and there was no love between them. Then came along me mum." Ah, and here Beckett shifts. Perhaps his well bred English manner takes offense to a baseborn bastard such as I. It is too bad, as I can't help my birth no more than he can.

"My father loved me mum, as truly as a man can. Aye, perhaps it was not so smart that he engaged in an affair with her behind his wife's back, but he did, and if he hadn't I wouldn't be here. When I was born, me mum, a scullery maid in my dad's household, had to bribe a stablehand to lie to anyone who asked that the child was his. It tortured my dad to see the man play father to his child, but he knew if he owned up to his affair he would be ruined socially. I was… one, maybe two, when the stablehand grew tired of playing the father figure and betrayed my parents to the mistress of the house. She could not divorce my father, as her religion forbade it, but "till death do us part" is a pretty useful relief clause and she was prepared to take full advantage of it.

"After casting me and my mother out onto the streets and publicly disgracing my father she attempted to have him murdered. But my father saw an opportunity in this to finally marry my mother legally, and so he faked his own death and sought her out to live with her, broke and ruined, on the streets. This miserable period lasted only a short while, as soon he learned of real estate being offered, real cheap-like, out in the Caribbean. A nice secluded island, he fancied, where we could be a family together, unbothered by the rest of the world. He used what was left of his fortune to buy my little island and we boarded the boat that would take us across the ocean without looking back. But fate did not smile on us, for on the crossing there blew up a fearsome storm.

"Mum was out on the deck when it happened, as she was prone to seasickness, and even though my father tried to bundle her away below deck the storm was too fierce and she fell overboard, lost among the white capped waves. We continued on and built our life here on this island, my father taking up the trade of a fisherman on discovering the rich waters about our island. And so we lived, until I was… eleven, methinks.

"Eleven or twelve or maybe thirteen, that's when he got the wound. He was out hunting a boar in the jungle that had been causin' a bit of a ruckus with the dogs. He comes limping back one night, a big bloody gash in his side, and he took to his bed while I tended him best I could. To no avail, however, for he sickened just as you did and he never go out of his bed again. It was probably ten years ago I buried my father, and ever since then I've been alone."

I don't mean to end it on such a note of self-pity, but its out in the open now, and I can't take it back. I'm waiting for a reaction from Beckett, and not for the first time, I catch myself searching his face for an emotion that is there, but covered by white linen.

"I am sorry for your loss," he says finally, turning his head in my direction. After a pause, he adds, "I suppose that explains it."

"Explains what?" I ask, and my head tilts curiously to the side of its own accord.

"Your language, your diction. Sometimes you talk as if you were born and bred in England, and at other times the drawl of a Caribbean steals into your voice. I cannot make heads or tails of it."

"I 'spose it depends a bit on how I was raised. My father talked as you do, always proper and pronounced, but whenever I go to port the way they talk there sort of sticks, you know, and I can't shake it. Now I think on it, though, it's really more as to what mood I'm in at the time. But what mood corresponds with which accent I am as at a loss to know as you are." It occurs to me then that maybe that was the only reason he asked about my background, and for some reason, his lack of interest offends me.

"Surely that ain't the only reason you were curious about me?" His lips quirk a little at the edges, as if there's a smile and a frown competing to be shown. I can't make heads or tails of it.

"No," he replies. "That's not the only reason." He does not elaborate.

**A/N: I hope this doesn't seem to be moving along too fast. I did, after all, skip three months in the story line, but I figured gotta keep it moving, you know? Drop a line if you agree/disagree so I can use it as reference when writing new chapters, ok? And someone wanted to know about Winnifred's history, so I figured this chapter was as good as any to put it in, and I just couldn't resist adding in that little line from DMC that Norrington says; I just love it to death! So I've given it to you, in its full glory, and I hope it wasn't too boring. (It is rather long winded.) Chapter six will be up sometime tomorrow! *crosses fingers* It is one of my favorite chapters, and I think you guys will like it very much! Master Of All Imagination is OUT! PEACE!**


	6. A Single Shot

**Having forgotten so far to put up a disclaimer, I figured I'd do it here. Better late than never. (Then again, who sues Fanfic writers anyways? I've never heard of sucha thing.) **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Pirates of the Caribbean or anything related to it. I just own Winnifred, and a small island with a hut on it.**

Every day after I put out their food, the dogs go out into the jungle to hunt. But this morning, Tuck doesn't eat, but lies down on the carpet and looks at me dolefully.

"C'mon, Tuck," I cajole, beckoning from the doorway. "C'mon, ole boy, wassa matter? Wassa matter?" He whines at me, but it is a pitiful whine, as though he can't be bothered to make a sound. Strange. Of the two, Tuck is normally more boisterous than Bull.

I kneel down beside him and stroke his head. He makes not a sound, and I know now there's something wrong. I check his limbs, which seem sound. I try to turn him over to listen to his heart, but he is heavy and unresponsive. Nothing I do will elicit any sort of reaction. Within me rises a sense of panic.

The dogs are not only my companions on this island, for so many years my only friends, but also a source of livelihood. They hunt for me, defend the hut from wild animals. I couldn't bear to lose one of them.

Perhaps Beckett knows something of dog-care. I call him and he comes to the kitchen. It has been two months since he first walked down the beach with me, and he can find his way around the hut now without too much trouble, and even helps me in the kitchen occasionally.

"Beckett, what do you know of dogs?" I ask as he kneels down beside me, led by my voice. He reaches out a hand seekingly and I guide it to Tuck, lying comatose-like on the floor.

"Much, actually. I once owned a fine pair of hounds that would come hunting with me every once in a while. What seems to be the matter with this one?"

"Tuck's normally pretty energetic, but this morning he didn't eat anything and he won't go outside like he usually does. I think he may have a bit of sickness in him." Beckett checks the dog over as skillfully and thoroughly as someone who could see would, and only occasionally asks me about Tuck's reaction to some poke or prod he's given him. Now he straightens and rocks back on his heels.

"How old is Tuck?" He asks solemnly.

"Well… Rip gave birth to a litter a few years after we settled in here, but then she died. Tuck's gotta be… at least ten, thirteen years, methinks."

"An abnormally long lifespan for a dog this size. Feel right here." He prods somewhere on Tuck's stomach, and I follow his hand. I shrug, not knowing what I am feeling for. "This is his kidney," he says. "It is noticeably swollen, and coupled with the fact that he is lethargic and won't eat, I have to diagnose him with complete kidney failure." My eyes narrow slightly; I do not know what this means.

"Is that bad? Do you need your kidney?"

"Of _course_ you need your kidney!" he cries in a tone that clearly shows his own disgust at my ignorance. When he realizes he has not answered the first half of my question, is it clear he makes an effort to keep the annoyance out of his voice. It is him fighting his own nature, and I am grateful for it. It means he really is changing.

"Yes. This is bad. He is in too much pain to move, let alone eat, and though the kidney failure will not kill him in and of itself, starvation eventually will. Do you have a gun?"

I knew it was coming. He would have to be put down. I try to harden my heart to the fact, but it finds a weakness in my armor and worms its way in. Wordlessly I go to my room and feel under my bed for what I know is hidden there.

I heft the musket out, and it is heavier than I remember. I bring it back into the kitchen and I show it to Beckett, running his hands over it for him.

"You know what you have to do, Winnifred," he intones gravely.

"Are you sure there is no other way? I don't think that I…" Beckett cuts me off impatiently.

"Winnifred, you have to do this."

"I… I can't."

"Would you rather he suffered? Screw your courage to the sticking place and do what needs to be done." He is quoting Macbeth at me, and I cannot help wonder what cruel twist of fate has brought back the words I once read to him on his sickbed to haunt me while I am at my dog's. It stings me, stings me to the bone, but even though I know he's right I also know I cannot bring myself to do it.

"I told you, Beckett, I can't. He's not just a dog; he's a friend- a part of my family." I say it with defeat clear in my voice. Beckett responds with the same echo in his.

"I understand," he says, setting his jaw. "Give me the gun."

"Give you the gun?" I parrot, shock taking the words right out of me. The truth of what he is about to do sinks down on me like a hundred tons of water. I don't even need to listen to the explanation he is giving to know.

"So I can do what needs to be done." I think if he were not blind, he would have strode up to me and yanked the musket right out of my hand. As it is, he only extends his gloved hand for the weapon silently. I give it to him, aware of how much a coward I am being at the moment, but I don't care. As he takes the gun he takes away the burden of responsibility that I knew I could not bear: the responsibility of ending the life of my dog- my friend.

There is a mutual understanding between us as I carry Tuck around to the back of the house near the lean-to. It is there that I buried father, and it is here that I quickly dig another grave beside it with the rusty shovel. When I am done I stand back and place Tuck in the hole, not neatly dug by a long shot, but well enough to be fitting. If I were a praying wench, I would pray. But I settle for gently kissing his furry head, and I take a good long, last look at him before I step back.

"You should go. You don't want to see this." I nod, and though he cannot see me the sound of my footsteps makes my intention clear.

I am sitting out front near the cook fire when I hear the shot shatter through the sound of the surf. And then it dissipates, leaving only the surf once more. The light in my eyes is dead as surely as Tuck is.

The last time I cried was when I buried father. I cried so hard the shovel shook in my hands and I could barely get the dirt to stay on the thing. Thank god it is not I who has to do the burying this time.

Beckett does not take long, and when he walks into view, the musket in one hand acting as his guide around the side of the hut, he says my name.

"Here," I call, and to my surprise, my voice is thick with tears and barely comes out coherently. I don't turn, don't move as Beckett follows my voice slowly to where I sit, rocking slowly back and forth in the sand. Neither of us says a word as he sits next to me and wraps his arms around me, and I sob uncontrollably into his shoulder, imitating a human dam that has flooded over.

_He didn't know what prompted him to go to the girl. It was like a magnet in his soul that drew him to take her into his arms. And while he told himself it was only out of pity and friendship that he comforted her, a small but loud part of his brain told him that the reason he did it was because he wanted to feel what it was like to hold her. Long ago he had learned to accept this voice as the truth, but he had also learned to ignore the truth when it suited his purpose. And so he blocked it out, but it was like a boomerang: No matter how hard he threw it away from himself it always came whinging back. _

There are no words to describe the grief I felt then. But there are also no words to express the gratitude I felt in Beckett's presence, the comfort it afforded me, nor the solace he gave. There's another feeling there too, but I hardly know what to call it, as I have never felt it before.

I thought I was strong when father died. But the truth is, the depth of emotion I felt for him was never equaled by another, and so I never had to deal with the heartbreak of the loss of it. Not until today.

_Screw your courage to the sticking place. _Beckett's words echo in my mind and they do the trick. I sit up, wipe my eyes, and breathe slowly and evenly. In a few minutes, the sobs shake me only sporadically, and finally these go too.

"I have to say… thank you. Thank you, so much. From the very bottom of my heart, thank you." I am not only thanking him for doing what I could not. I am thanking him for everything, but I think especially for putting aside his pride and sitting here, holding me, a pathetic figure, patiently waiting for my sadness to subside. As to why, I cannot but theorize.

"It was the least I could do after all you have done for me." I nod, and he feels the movement against his shoulder, so I know I need not say anything more. I stand up, for a moment shaky on my feet, but then Beckett is beside me supporting me and I no longer sway like a drunkard. We move as one for the hut, and though I still have the whole day ahead of me, I am no longer daunted by the prospect of it.

I spent almost a year living through each day tainted with the grief of my father's absence. But last time, I didn't have Beckett. This time, it will be different, though not for long.

In a week I go to port. Beckett knows this. He has not yet asked to come, but I know he will. It is what I dread come morning. When he leaves, I will miss him sorely.

After all, if there's one thing I have learned from today, it is that I know if I were to be parted from Beckett, it would be ten times worse than being parted from Tuck. For six months, we were always together, Beckett and I. It is not only because he is blind and I am his eyes. It is because we are aware of a mutual need of each other. I look to my side and he is there. When I go out in my skiff to fish he is there on the shore waiting for me to return. When I sleep, he is in the next room, waiting for me to wake. He is more than I have ever wanted in a companion, which sets me to wondering: What, exactly, does Beckett mean to me?

**A/N: The end! I hope you liked this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Before any of you ask, yes, a dog can die from kidney failure; it is in fact how my dog died. She was old and had lived a good life, but one day she woke up and wouldn't eat (a red flag, as she loved food) and was lethargic and we brought her to the vet and found out her kidney was shot (or was it liver? I can't remember) and we had to put her down. You could say I wrote it from the heart. I am also trying to keep Beckett in character, as demonstrated by his masterful handling of the whole incident… but also keeping with his newfound feelings for Winnifred by his show of affection afterwards. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed- I feel like I have a following of sorts! Alright, I'm off to write chapter 7. See you tomorrow! **

**P.S. Please forgive me for any inconsistencies in verb tense as I write this; switching from first person present tense when writing Winnifred and then third person past tense when writing Beckett, while literarily stimulating, also plays tricks on my mind and I am prone to make mistakes. Bear with me through them, I'm trying! **


	7. Gold

**A/N: I'm two days late updating, so sorry for that, but I have made up for it as this chapter is longer than normal and is very pivotal. I hope you enjoy, and don't forget to make your mark on the roster! (Pirate speak for leave a review!)**

I wake with the sun. Today is a big day. Today, I return to port.

Beckett most always sleeps an hour or so longer than I, and I use this time to make my preparations. Today is the day we must say goodbye, and the fact weighs heavily on my heart. As I gather items from the kitchen, however, the door opens and Beckett steps out, fully dressed and wide awake.

"Morning, Beckett," I greet, though it is not with my usual fervor. "You're up early. How come?"

"Winnifred, we need to talk." I sigh, and knowing his words were inevitable doesn't help one bit.

"Aye, that we do. Sit down 'ere and we'll chat." I take a seat at the small scrubbed table and he reaches out with his walking stick, tapping around the floor until he finds the leg of the other chair. Then his hands reach out, grasp the arms of it, and he sits down heavily.

"I am coming with you," he says authoritatively, and I cannot deny him.

"Aye. I know it to be true, though… I had hoped…" I trail off, aware of how pathetic I sound. I am glad he doesn't reply. There is a silence as wide as the sea before I ask,

"Where will you go?"

_Beckett had had a plan for going after the fountain for almost two years, but it had taken him six months to decide if he wanted to include Winnifred in it. It was only that morning as he lay awake in bed far past midnight that he had finalized the decision that had been floating around in his mind since his first day on the island. Now it was time to finally tell Winnifred._

"There is a water source that gives eternal life to whoever drinks it, healing all wounds and curing all maladies. It is this that I sought before my untimely demise, and the unfortunate circumstances that have ruined me have only spurred me to go to greater lengths to attain this goal. Winnifred, I would have liked to take this journey alone, as it is fraught with danger, but as I cannot see, I find I require a companion. I ask you to take on this dubious honor, as a helpmate and accomplice but also as a dear friend and companion. I would trust no other in this role but you."

I had accepted the existence of Davy Jones; I figured I could accept this too.

"What is this miracle water called?"

"The legendary Aqua de Vida. The Fountain of Youth."

_Beckett wanted desperately to rake his eyes across her face, scrutinize it for any expression which would betray her decision, but his eyes were useless. _

Beckett's face, as always, is an unreadable mask behind the cloth, and I look to his body language to betray his feelings. He is holding himself straight as a ramrod, and his hands fiddle with his stick. He is nervous, visibly so. I can see that much hinges on my decision, but I know that I must put my feelings and wants first to make an informed decision.

At first, I am shocked he has asked me to come with him, but I soon realize it is of course a necessity for a blind man to have a companion. Part of me wants nothing more than to return to the island and live out my days in familiar routine and solitude. But another part, a part of me that is new and that I do not entirely understand yet, yearns for the adventure he's offering. Beckett is still somewhat of an enigma to me, but having spent half a year in close contact with him I feel a strange kinship that I have never felt before, even with my father. And my whole being, encompassing both parts of me, is loathe to be parted from him.

My decision is made, and I take his hand to enforce my seriousness as I say,

"I will go with you, Beckett. I will do whatever it takes to help you find this fountain." His mouth curls into a wide, beaming smile. He seems almost beautiful then, though I know the scarred visage that lies beneath. Scars both physical and mental.

It does not bother me as I step with him into the skiff. Somehow, I know that though he is not wholly a different person, nor he is the man he once was. He is blemished, yes. But what defined him then is no longer what defines him now.

Realizing my whole plans, not only for the day but also for the immediate future have been altered, I call for Bull and carry him along. Brother James will need to tend to him if Beckett and I are to go off in search of mythical fountains.

I cast off from the dock. Halfway out of the bay I get this feeling, a tingling in my back, and I realize it is the presence of Beckett, sitting calmly with his cane propped up in front of him with both hands folded over it. It is, after all, a strange experience for me sailing with another person, as it is normally something I do alone. There is a tension in the air from this, and I must break it.

"So tell me. How, exactly, do ye plan to find this elusive fountain?" I ask.

"_We _will not be finding it. We shall merely be going along for the ride as we let someone else do all the work," he responds enthusiastically.

"And who be this fabulous tool of yours?"

"A man to whom I owe a debt of vengeance. A man named Jack Sparrow." He spits the last two words out as though they're something vile he's just eaten. "It has a certain poetic justice about it, don't you think? Forcing the man who betrayed me to lead me to my salvation?"

"Aye, that it does, but Beckett, I must ask… I thought you had put this behind you. Let the past be past, as it were."

"In a way, I have. Yet I do not only seek him out for his crimes against me. He also happens to be the man most likely to take on the challenge of finding the Fountain. I have had the opportunity to observe him for some time, and upon being rescued from Davy Jones's locker became obsessed with achieving immortality. I have no doubt that once I make my offer, he will not be able to resist." An evasive answer. I should have expected nothing more from Beckett.

Open water stretches ahead, and open water stretches behind. I work my way over the waves to the northwest, using nothing more than the sun to gauge my progress. It is high by the time we dock, and when Brother James comes to greet me as per usual, he stops short upon seeing me helping Beckett out of the skiff. Uh oh. This is going to require some explaining.

He takes me aside, leaving Beckett to wait on his own by the boat.

"Winnifred, is this the man you were telling me about? The one you rescued?"

"Aye, Brother."

"Seems you are finally ridding yourself of him. Good lass. Never thought it prudent in the first place, having a man in your house."

"Nay, that's not how it is at all. Brother, I am leaving the island. I don't know for how long or where yet I shall be going, but I am accompanying Beckett on his…" I pause, not wanting to tell James of the Fountain. He would for sure think me mad. "On his journey home," I finish plausibly.

"Can't the man do it himself? And why in the world does he wear that cloth over half his face?"

"Those questions answer themselves, Brother. He cannot do it 'imself 'cus e's blind. He wears the cloth to hide the burns that cover half his face." I have dropped my voice to a conspiratorial whisper, though I know not why. Brother James seems not to know how to respond to this, and I take his silence as a chance to push Bull upon him. I call the large dog over and say to James,

"I'll be needin' you to take care of Bull here fer me while I'm gone. He's a loyal dog, always done me good. I'll be sad to part with him, but it's not permanent- like, only till I return. Can ye do that for me?" Brother James nods and gives me a small smile.

"Yes I can. Good luck on your voyage, wherever it may take you."

"Thank ye, James." He clasps my had briefly before turning up the road that leads to the monastery, calling for Bull as he goes. The dog is reluctant to follow, and it takes my cajoling to entice him to follow. I backtrack over the dock, my boots echoing on the rotting planks, and take Beckett's arm.

"I've tied up the last of my business here. Now only one thing is left- to find Jack Sparrow."

"That is the easiest part," Beckett says. "Jack Sparrow will be in Tortuga, frequenting the loudest brothels and noisiest taverns he can find. All we must do is book passage on a ship bound in that direction, and that, I think, will be the hard part." My heart sinks as I realize exactly what will be hard about it.

"Beckett, I'm afraid I have some bad news. On the island I lived off the waters, but on land, I am penniless. There's no way to pay for us," I say despondently, stopping up just short of the main street of town.

"Lucky for you, though I be a dead man, I have ways of securing assets. All we must needs find is a bank or merchant of some sort." As he says this, he tilts his head just slightly, as though he is amused by something. It occurs to me for the second time today that he must have some sort of highly thought-out, master plan for finding the Fountain. It reassures me as we step onto the main street together.

The bustle, hustle, and general noise and mess of it all disgusts every sense I have. The love of solitude I have gained over the years explodes in my face with the gaggle of people, and the press and push and pull of bodies everywhere nearly threatens to overwhelm me. I look to Beckett for clarity, as he is always poised, or so it seems behind that cool linen mask of his. I walk forward purposefully into the fray, clearing the way for me and Beckett and paying careful heed to make sure he does not wander into anyone.

I head straight for Boris & Co., the local banker. He's no big shot, and I hope Beckett can get what he needs from him. As we enter the shop, the brightness of the daylight dims with the fog of the interior of the bank. A small bell chimes and at its sound a portly man appears from a door behind the long counter we now stand facing.

"How may I help you today?" He asks cordially, his eyes taking in Beckett's visage and lingering there. Beckett moves forward towards the sound of his voice and I guide him up to the counter.

"I am here to take out a loan." The man starts visibly when Beckett speaks, as if he were expecting him to be mute as well as blind. He is staring openly with his mouth agape and does not respond. "Winnifred," Beckett asks, "Why does the man make no sound?" I smile, seeing a perfect chance to make a fool of the man for his extremely rude actions.

"He is too busy gaping at you to reply. If he does not close his mouth, I fear flies will make it their home. Perhaps we ought go someplace else for our business, as he obviously does not have the common courtesy to refrain from staring at those who have unusual features." That shuts his mouth well and good, and when I see the small smile of satisfaction on Beckett's lips from my words, I smile too.

_Beckett reflected on Winnifred's defense of him. He admitted ruefully that she had an acid tongue. He also admitted, equally ruefully, that he was somewhat… _flattered_ by her quickness in coming to his aid. He liked here more and more by the hour._

"Of course, miss. Of course, sir. My apologies, I did not mean to offend-"

"Let us skip the groveling, shall we?" Beckett cuts in. "I come to you with a difficult problem. I have recently made the crossing from England, and as such, all my monetary assets and valuables lie across the ocean in my manor, out of reach for the foreseeable future. Yet I have decided to enter into a business venture with a good friend of mine which requires a good deal of money as a start up fee, and seeing as I brought no more gold with me than was necessary to carry out my trip in modest luxury, I am at a disadvantage. If I were to wait for the next ship, sail it home and back, the deal would have slipped from my grasp. Time is of the essence, and so I humbly ask you for a loan sufficient enough to cover the expenses of the deal," Beckett eloquently narrated, the lie slipping off his tongue like water down the throat.

The banker appears to me a simpleton and is awed by Beckett. He quickly scrambles for a quill and parchment, mumbling about being "very happy to oblige" and "if you will just sign here."

And here a problem presents itself. The man sets the quill and parchment in front of Beckett, but he makes no move to take them. Of course not- he cannot see!

"He be blind! Can ye not see that? How can he possibly sign that? Or are you blind as well as rude?"

_That's my girl, Beckett thought to himself. He was beginning to thoroughly enjoy having her along for this journey._

"Oh so sorry, my lady, miss- uh, I will, um…" he picks up the quill, not quite knowing what to do with it. I snatch it from his hand and make my mark upon the parchment myself, a simple "Winnifred Dayne" in my sloppy cursive. I may have been raised in isolation, but I am by no means illiterate.

"There. You have your signature. Where is our money?" He hurries into the door he first entered through and emerged soon after with a box of gold coins. He opens it and places it across from us on the counter. I look into it with great interest, having never seen something so shiny in my life. Beckett's hand searchingly feels up the side of the box and inside, counting the coins with his fingers.

"How much will we need?" I ask him in an aside.

"All of it," he replies to me quietly. My eyebrows raise just a fraction, but besides that, I flinch not once as I tell the bank teller we require all of it. He, however, flinches noticeably. Words are on the tip of his tongue but he snatches them back as Beckett firmly snaps shut the lid.

"Of course. I shall expect reimbursement for the loan at my customary rate of thirteen percent, and within two years, else it doubles."

"I expect you shall be repaid in full well before that time. Thank you for doing business with us." Beckett nods to me, and I know it is time to leave. As I heft the chest, though it be half the size of my torso, I am bowed down by its weight.

"Beckett, could ye take one side of this?" I ask. He nods and I place the handle in his hand and together we walk out of the bank, the gold swinging between us.

Less than an hour later, we are on a boat, headed for Tortuga. Our adventure has begun.


	8. A Brief Interlude

**A/N: This chapter requires a little bit of explaining. Or maybe the explaining is best done at the end. I think I will let you decide. You can skip to the A/N the end, or read the chapter first. Doesn't bother me either way. Now let me take this chance to thank my devoted reviewers, ****Isen-norden-ss, accio mischief, TheMarauderBandit, DunasPriest, Countcresent, ****and ****lisafayblue**** for all their input- it makes me so happy to open up my Gmail and see a new review from all you guys, so thanks a bunch!**

Jack walked up the plank of the _Black_ _Pearl _with his usual swagger accentuated doubly by his drunkenness. He staggered his way to the captain's cabin, and had lurched around for a good few minutes trying to find his rum stash (the proprietor of the last tavern he'd been in had kicked him out on account of "ungentlemanly behavior." So what if he had been running along the bar? Not like those drunk scalawags had been using it for anything better,) before he noticed the presence of another man in the room.

Barbossa sat huddled over the desk in the corner, and Jack approached him, asking,

"Where's all the rum gone?"

"It be here, Jack," Barbossa answered, swinging an empty bottle in front of his co-captain's face. Many of its brothers lay around the floor, devoid of their contents. "I've drunk it all. Shame. It didn't do what it were meant ter do." Barbossa's words were slurred and barely interpretable. Jack's brows drew together, his curiosity peaked.

"An' what be that, mate?" Barbossa turned and looked at him with bloodshot eyes.

"Drown me conscience." Jack's curiosity was definitely active.

"An' wat be botherin ye so that yer tryin to find the answer in th' bottom of a bottle?" Jack asked innocently, drawing up a chair beside the desk.

"Ye spurned me, Jack," Barbossa intoned flatly, staring him straight in the eye.

"That doesn't answer my que-" Jack tried to cut in, but the other man spoke over him. "Ye spurned me fer that pretty wench from port what's-its-name, leavin' me alone. Ye know that be why I mutineed on ye, Jack. No hard feelings for that, by the way."

"None at all, mate," Jack chimed in cheerily, interested in where this was going. Yes, he had known that the older man had loved him at one point. Yes, he had left him for a woman. A very _pretty _woman, he would add in his defense. And, yes, he never saw the woman again for nigh on ten years after the mutiny until a chance encounter, where upon their reunion, she had slapped him. But he had never known until now the true reason behind Barbossa's mutiny. Suspected, yes. Known for certain? No. But Barbossa continued before he could follow that line of thought any further.

"I came this close," he said, holding his thumb and forefinger together to demonstrate, "to doin it agen te ye, Jack. _This close,_" he emphasized, "to taking the maps off ye as ye slept and makin' off with the _Pearl._ But me damn conscience- no, damned be me heart, for it is the real culprit here! It has made a woman of me, and I couldn't do it. I couldn't do it 'cus I love ye, Jack. Always have, always will." Silence reigned after his confession, and for once Jack was shocked into silence. He was left bereft of a quip, a witty one-liner to respond with. And so he responded with the first action that leapt into his head. He was drunk and not in his right mind, and come morning that is the excuse he would use, but in his heart of hearts he _wanted _to do it. He wanted so badly to lean across and kiss Barbossa right on the lips- and so that's what he did.

The older pirate did nothing for a moment, drink-addled reflexes slow to respond, but when they did he threw his arms around his neck, and Jack's snaked of their own accord around Barbossa's waist. They kissed unreservedly, neither of them noticing the lightening sky outside, nor the face that was pressed to the window, watching their secret tryst. And only when a crewman finally banged on the door, announcing that there was a guest here to see the captain, did they break apart, reluctantly and slowly.

Rum was a good scapegoat to blame their actions on, and that is what they did. They exchanged nary a glance as they focused on their visitors: a young woman with sun browned skin and a short man with half of his face covered in cloth.

**A/N: This takes place right at the end of AWE, the day that Jack wakes up Gibbs by throwing water on his face. The night before, actually. And from here on out, it gets a little AU. Ok, a LOT AU. But let me explain my thinking: by twisting the actions/motives of one man I changed the course of the whole movie (OST) into where I wanted it to go. (It will all be explained in forthcoming chapters.) And let me just say, something about the fourth movie in the scenes with Jack and Barbossa made me think they'd make a cute couple. Do you see how I have exploited that? Yes? Good. Now, on with the show! Next chapter sees Winnifred and Beckett once more. P.S. How was my piiirate accent? I tried my best on Barbossa and Jack, but suggestions for improvement are welcome!**


	9. Leverage

**A/N: This chapter may be a bit rough, as it was written in pieces, reassembled, and given a cursory once-over so as to finish it in time to publish it today. That was just a warning, not an excuse. And thank you to Dunas Priest for pointing out the strange italics at the end, they have since been fixed. Enjoy!**

Neither of us is worse for the wear as we disembark at Tortuga in the late afternoon sunlight after a week at sea. Beckett and I carry the chest of gold between us, our only belonging. The captain had been glad to lighten it somewhat in exchange for passage on his ship.

"What exactly will his ship look like, Beckett?" I ask, casting about at the myriad of ships docked. Tortuga seems almost double the size of my port, and the ships infinitely more varied. Some are little larger than my own skiff, and some were merchant vessels so large their sails cast shadows on the water yards long.

"It has black sails and is quite large. Other than that, it has no particularly distinguishing features. I fear we may have to inquire at a pub or tavern as to its whereabouts. And drawing on the memories of the last time I was in Tortuga, that shall not be a pleasant experience."

"We might as well skip that and start our search now, as we're already at the docks." Beckett turns his head and says sadly,

"_You _might as well start the search now. I am afraid I shall be of no use." I scoff. Has his opinion of himself really degraded that much?

"Nonsense, Beckett. You know the crew of the _Black Pearl _far better than I. You can identify them by their voices, nay?"

"Perhaps-" I cut him off short.

"Well, there you go! Now come. We have a lot o' shore to cover before dark." Even before I finish speaking, I am dragging him off the wooden planking of our dock and down another.

As we pass each ship I scan it for black sails, and when there is none I move on as quickly as my legs will allow. Even so, dark begins to descend and we still haven't found it. The hunt has sparked fervor in me and I conveniently forget to let Beckett know how late it is becoming. In the gathering dark, every sail seems black, and finally I am so frustrated I walk right up on deck of the nearest ship and ask the first man I see:

"Excuse me, sir, but do you happen to know where I could find a ship called the _Black Pearl_?" The man had been on watch and leaning over the rail of the deck.

"Aye, miss, you be on it!" At his voice, Beckett beside me whispers in my ear,

"That's Gibbs, his first mate! We've found the place!" I grin at his excitement.

"Is the captain aboard?" Gibbs's eyes narrow.

"And what be ye wantin' with th' cap'n?" He asks me suspiciously. I answer as innocently as I can.

"My friend and I have a business proposition we would like to discuss with him." The man takes a swig from a hip flask, eyeing me critically all the while.

"Very well then. I suppose you can wait here until he gets back," he grumbles, and I smile.

"Thank you. When he returns, can ya let us know?" He nods.

"Aye, that I can. Ye can wait on the ship, just- _don't touch anything._" He walks away, and Beckett and I are free to roam the deck.

"Winnifred, we are among pirates now. We would do well to keep the contents of the chest secret. And you would also do well to… well, to…" I stare at Beckett in amazement as he struggles with his words- (and this is the source of my amazement) - in _embarrassment._ He is embarrassed at what he is trying to say!

"What are ya gonna say, Beckett? Spit it out," I admonish, and finally the words tumble out of his mouth all fast-like.

"Pirates are a most licentious lot and I would hate to see you taken advantage of. I know you carry a blade at your waist, and I encourage you to use it if a man decides to try anything inappropriate." My eyebrows rise but my lips smile. I am absolutely touched that he thinks enough of me to be worried about me.

"I'm naught but a fisherwoman, and no great beauty at that. I don't think anyone will be that interested in a-sharing' me bed." Beckett will not look at me, and he stares fixedly off into the distance. I am not fooled, though, as his hands nervously fiddle with his stick.

"Well, in any case, just- be careful, Winnifred," he says as he turns suddenly, a nervous smile creasing his face.

"Aye, that I shall."

A man suddenly walks up the gangplank and distracts me from Beckett. He is tilting and swaying like a piece of driftwood upon a storm-torn surf, and as he passes Gibbs he exclaims,

"Captain! There are two people here to see-" The man ignores Gibbs and proceeds right to the main cabin of the ship. I nudge Beckett quickly and whisper,

"Does Jack Sparrow by any chance have dreadlocks and a drinking problem?"

"Why, yes, actually. How did you know?" I shake my head and say,

"Wait here. I'm going to see what's so important he can't spare a word for his first mate."

"Winnifred, don't leave me-" he begins, but I am already gone, striding quickly to the door and pressing my face to the grimy window there.

The cabin is dark except for a single candle on a desk in the corner. It illuminates Jack Sparrow and another man whom I do not know. They are deep in conversation, but as I watch, the conversation quickly terminates in a very unusual way: Jack Sparrow leans over and kisses the other man.

I have a feeling I should not be witnessing this, because I have a feeling that the two men should not be kissing each other. I quickly duck away and put my back to the door, thinking over what I saw. They say curiosity killed the cat, but no one ever includes the ending: "and satisfaction brought it back." I am following the old adage as I peek once more through the window and find them still locked in one another's embrace. I wonder idly if can use this as some sort of… bargaining chip.

I return to Beckett, touching his shoulder to let him know I am there.

"Where did you disappear off to? You know I hate it when you do that," he reprimands quietly.

"Yes, but I have brought back some important information. I have leverage."

"I am intrigued."

"I have just been spying through the window in the door of the captain's cabin."

"Who was in there?" Beckett asks under his breath.

"Well, there's a tall fellow with a large hat and scraggly hair- dunno him."

"That would be Barbossa, Jack's former first mate."

"Ah, that explains a lot," I exclaim.

"Explains what?" demands Beckett, and I tell him the complete story.

"Well, I looked in there after seeing Jack Sparrow walk onto the ship all drunk-like, and waddya know, he goes in there and kisses this Barbossa fellow, bold as brass," I explain. It's funny to watch Beckett's mouth drop open in stark amazement.

"He _what_? Are you absolutely sure?"

"Aye, as sure as the sun will rise tomorrow morning."

"This is- this is great news! Leverage, indeed! Winnifred, where would I be without you?"

"Rotting on the bottom of the ocean," I answer honestly. I think his question might have been rhetorical, but he smiles anyways.

"Too right you are. Now, let's see if we can put our leverage to good use. We need to talk to Gibbs." I take his arm but before I can hail the heavyset first mate, Beckett adds a word of caution in my ear:

"We must convince both Barbossa and Jack if we are to gain their trust and assistance finding the Fountain, and persuasion is to be used first before leverage. Do you understand?" I think this is time to ask Beckett something that has been puzzling me for quite some time.

"Aye, I understand, but tell me, Beckett, for I've been curious for a while now. How are we to prevent them from just… taking it once we have found it?"

"Leave that to me. And remember this: Jack is a cocky bastard." I have never heard Beckett swear before. I realize now how much he must hate the man who blinded him. "He also has a way with words. Do not let him sway you."

"Never. You ready?" He simply nods, and I lead us over to Gibbs, who agrees to introduce us to the captain. Light is gathering once more in the sky as Gibbs knocks perfunctorily and opens the door.

Identical guilty looks are plastered across Barbossa and Jack's faces, and they have obviously just broken apart as they are too close for just casual conversation. Gibbs does not seem to notice anything amiss, but I had the advantage of the window to clue me in on the source of their guilt.

"What be ye wantin', Mr. and Mrs.…?" The tall one with the scraggly hair demands as he hastily stands up. Jack follows suit, albeit more slowly and drunkenly. I may have blushed a slight bit, but beside me, Beckett noticeably shifts uncomfortably. I am quick to correct him.

"We ain't husband and wife, sir. My name is Winnifred Dayne, and this is-" To my surprise, before I can finish the sentence Beckett steps forward and says,

"Governor Attleby, at your service. Winnifred is my friend and assistant, nothing more."

_Beckett had to restrain himself from jumping upon hearing from Barbossa the assumption that Winnifred was his wife. He knew there was a reason he had never liked the pirate. And there next to him, he assumed, was Jack Sparrow. He'd never like him much, either. Ah, but he would make him pay for his presumption. All in good time._

"Ye still haven't answered me question," Barbossa drawls, and I realize he is no more sober than Jack is. I have only ever once before seen a man drunk, then in the market many years ago. He walked down the street shouting about some guilty crime of his, then promptly puked into a barrel and pitched over to fall stone asleep on the cobblestones. At least, I think he slept.

I let Beckett handle the conversation, as he seems to have a plan. I am a little put out that he didn't choose to fill me in on this beforehand, but no matter. We are in this together, and I know that sooner or later he will have to put his trust in me irrevocably. Until then, let him have his little secrets.

"I have a business proposition I do not think you will be able to refuse. It involves, among other things, finding the location of the legendary Fountain of Youth." Beckett pauses for dramatic effect, and Jack takes the chance to suddenly lurch sideways and begin frantically searching through the contents of the desk. Coming up empty, he proceeds to rifle the room, and all the while Barbossa and I stare on, I beginning to think he is insane more and more with each passing minute.

His search is explained a minute later when he emerges triumphantly with a splintered bit of circular wood held high.

"Got it!" He exclaims. "You were saying?"

"Ah- yes. So I was saying." Beckett regains his composure remarkably quickly seeing as he had no idea the source of the disturbance.

"We require a ship and a crew to take us to the Fountain, and as payment we offer an equal share in its life-giving, immortal-rendering waters." Jack looks Beckett up and down, lingering on his face.

"And you wouldn't jest be… out fer yer own agendas?" The implication is clear.

"Our agendas are of no practical interest to you. I had hoped I would be able to convince you to donate your crew and ship to our cause, but as you are proving obstinate, it is time to try a different tack. Winnifred, I believe you can explain what I mean better than I can."

"Aye. If you do not help us, I shall be forced to explain to your crew exactly what you were doing in here before we entered. And I don't think you're gonna want that getting out." Understanding dawns on Barbossa's face first, and he quickly yanks Jack's arm to turn him around. They converse in hurried whispers, and only at one point do their tones grow loud enough for me to overhear.

"Damn you, Sparrow," Barbossa curses.

"Damn yourself, love. It takes two to tango," Jack teases in return. Barbossa shoots Jack a disgusted look, but as Jack's hand takes a hold of his, the older pirate cannot resist smiling just a tiny bit. It is enough to take the sting out of his words.

I miss none of this, but it is all wasted on Beckett, and I resolve to share it with him as soon as we are alone.

They turn around again and regard us with shrewd calculation.

"Alright," Jack says genially, "We have an accord. We take you to this fountain of yours if you keep your bonny mouths shut about the whole… well, you know what I'm talking about. And mind you, we still want the water too."

"Of course!" Beckett says, smiling. "Glad we could come to an agreement. We will be happy to honor it." It's lucky that only I know he's lying through his teeth. "When do we sail?"

"Now is as good a time as any," Jack says, and he ambles past us out onto the deck and starts shouting at his crew to make sail. Barbossa follows him, and for a moment, Beckett and I are alone.

"You didn't see, but Jack and Barbossa were holding hands all through that last exchange," I gossip to him.

"Though I never would have thought it, it seems they have a true affinity for each other. It plays to our advantage that you witnessed it, Winnifred, as we are finally on our way to the Fountain!"


	10. Whisper

**A/N: Ok, ok, so I know a lot of people aren't really digging the whole Jack/Barbossa thing, (I've actually been flamed over it!) but it was integral to the plotline of the story for chapters 8, 9& somewhat 10. Have no fear, though, for after this chapter I'm moving away from it and focusing exclusively on Beckett/Winnifred. Bear with me, all right? **

I've always been at home on the sea, but waking up day after day and getting up out of a bed that rolls and pitches is something new entirely to the familiarity of my skiff. Beckett assures me that I shall get used to it, and I trust him, knowing he's spent more time sleeping on a ship than I. This morning, however, I feel as if I never shall.

I dress and head down the passageway to Beckett's room. I knock once and his voice comes to me muffled through the wood.

"Enter." I open the door and find him sitting on his bed. He can mostly dress himself, but buttons still present a challenge. It is routine that I help him do up his coat in the mornings.

"Good day, Winnifred," he greets me. "Sleep well last night?"

"Nay, I'm afraid not. 'Tis unnatural for me to sleep on a bed that won't stay still for naught." Beckett laughs softly, and as I finish the last button, he takes my arm.

"Could you escort me above decks? I think the fresh air will do us both some good." I nod, and by now he has learned to interpret the silence for a yes. We head out of his room and into the passageway, I uttering a brief warning as we come to the stairs, and we ascend them into the light of day.

The deck swarms with activity, like little ants busy round an anthill. I lead him to the quietest spot of rail to the portside and lean my elbows against it. Beckett follows suit, and we stand in comfortable silence, both contemplating waves that only I can see. It reminds me so much of my island, and I am not ashamed to say a faint pang of homesickness assaults me. The sea shanty I once sang to Beckett comes unbidden to mind and I hum it quietly under my breath. Out of the blue Beckett suddenly turns to me and says,

"I love that song, you know. It seems so… metaphorically correct."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, '_If only a seaman returned from beyond the watery grave…' _That's me, in a way. And _a most devoted young slave… _that's you. I can barely walk without you, and so you have, in a way, become my slave.

"But how is it slavery if I do it of my own free will?"

"I suppose," he admits. "Are there any other verses to the song?"

"I only know one more, but it hardly fits your metaphor."

"I'd like to hear it anyway." I oblige him, and sing in a slightly off-pitch alto,

_Remember, remember the warnings so clear_

_The clouds on the edge of the sea_

_It bodes no good for a seaman to sail_

_When the dawn's as red as the tales_

_Heigh, ho, sea oh_

_The sky is stormy and grey _

_Heigh, ho, sea oh_

_The fisherman's lost his way_

Beckett's mouth curves into a cynical smile.

"You're not quite right about that. Even if I'd had warning of what was to come, I probably would have gone into the proverbial storm anyways. But does it really matter whether I met my downfall blindly or forewarned?"

"Forewarned is forearmed, my father always used to say. Maybe you wouldn't have gone ahead if you had known the risks. You shouldn't judge yerself too harshly."

"I suppose… you're right. That's in the past now. And though it does not do to dwell on it, sometimes I cannot keep myself from brooding."

_Beckett was suddenly seized by a desire to kiss Winnifred. The woman was standing there in front of him, giving him a second chance when he deserved none, telling him he was a better man than he gives himself credit for when he knows it to be a lie, and he just couldn't resist._

He puts his hand out, palm facing forward, and so he can see where I am I place mine against his.

His hand travels up my arm and around my shoulder, up my neck and around my head, and he leans in- ever so slightly leans in- and so do I, until our noses almost touch.

My heart beats frantically and flutters undecidedly between my stomach and my throat. I swear Beckett could hear it if he listened; it makes such an almighty sound.

I have no idea what Beckett is about to do, only a vague hope that scares me with its implications.

He brushes my hair away from my ear and as he leans in further he whispers in my ear-

"Between you and me, though, I regret nothing that has happened since," and the vague hope has been crushed like a shell underfoot. I feel silly for having nursed it in the first place.

_He had leaned in, fully expecting to kiss her, but then something happened that he had never before experienced; his courage failed him. He suddenly had not the courage to carry out his intention and was left no alternative but to cover it up with something seemingly innocent- and so he whispered in her ear. His words are only a fraction of the sentiment he would like to express, but it is all he can muster for the moment. _

The silence between us is suddenly palpable, like I can reach out and break it in half with my hand. Then suddenly Beckett turns away from me, and in a rather stunning display manages to use only his cane to navigate his way back below decks and I am left alone, studying the sea passing by rapidly below me. Suddenly I feel a presence by my side, and for a moment, my heart leaps in anticipation of Beckett, but it is only Jack Sparrow. He leans his elbows on the rail in imitation of my pose.

"Morning to ya, Captain," I greet cordially. I will him to go away, but he doesn't budge.

"And morning to you. I say, have you and the governor had a little… disagreement?" I narrow my eyes at him. So he'd been watching us, eh? Seems all Beckett's cautions against Jack were founded after all.

"The guv'nor warned me 'bout you, Jack Sparrow. Said ya 'ad a way with words, 'e did. Also said not to trust you further than I can spit. And that ain't far," I add suspiciously.

"Well that's hardly fair, love! You don't even know me yet,"

"Exactly my point."

"What I'm sayin' is, if you _got _to know me, maybe you'd change your mind."

"Speak plainly, Sparrow. There's only so many thinly veiled invitations a woman can take."

"Alright, here it be, plain as day: that man, Apple- what's-his-name-"

"Attleby," I correct.

"Applebee. Yeah. That man ain't worth all the trouble you be lavishin' on him. A blind, scarred man? It don' seem like the type a young woman would take a fancy to. Now, me, on the other hand-" This has gone far enough, and I'm disgusted with his overtures enough that I'm sure it shows in my voice as I cut him off.

"Nay, it's not like that. Ya don't know 'im, so who are you to say if I should be wasting me time on 'im? And besides, there's naught but friendship between 'im an me anyhow. I would appreciate it if you would not try to insinuate otherwise." Even as I say them, the words taste a lie. Strange how it takes a total stranger to make you realize the truth about someone who is anything but a stranger. I know what this means, but I cannot think about it now. First I must finish my wordly thrashing of Captain Sparrow. "And besides, I was under the impression that you an' Barbossa were a couple. Real faithful you've been." Jack holds up his hands in defeat.

"No need to get yer panties in a knot! I were only 'bout to say that if I were you, I'd find someone more worthy of my affections." Ah. So he hadn't been coming on to me. Good. I guess he isn't as unfaithful as I thought him.

"I'm sorry for insulting ya, Jack, but really, I want to be alone right now," I say as I push past him and take refuge below decks. Once I am safely in my cabin, I can admit it to myself:

I do not think of Beckett as only my friend. I think… I _think _I'm in love with him. As soon as the thought crosses my mind, I know it's the truth, and I know that the vague hope I had just a moment ago was that he'd kiss me.

I've never been in love before. I'd read about it, sure. _Romeo and Juliet._ Classic tale of love, right there. Also a tragedy. What kind of happy ending is both lovers dying for one another? None, that's what.

A thought occurs to me. The logical route to pursue is to tell Beckett I love him. But what if he doesn't love me back? What if we are doomed to a tragic end, just like Romeo and Juliet? I must avoid that at all costs. Though I feel that it may hurt my heart in the end, I resolve to keep my mouth shut about my feelings and just go on as I have been- at least until such a time that Beckett shows he returns my feelings. And if not, then for forever.

I start guiltily as I hear a knock on my door. I have no idea why I feel like I have been caught at something bad, for after all, my thoughts are private and silent.

I open the door to find none other than Beckett, who promptly informs me,

"It's time we had a meeting with the captain. He needs to be made aware of the situation and where exactly we need to go to find the Fountain."

"And where _is _that, Beckett?" I ask, hoping this will be the day he finally tells me his plans. To my immense satisfaction, my patience has paid off, for he says to me,

"There are two items required for the ritual of the Fountain of Youth. One is a mermaid's tear, and the other is a set of two silver chalices. I think it would be best if we go after the tears first, as they will likely be the most… how shall I put it… difficult to ensnare?" He smiles to himself as if he is sharing a personal joke with himself. "But come, Jack and Barbossa are waiting for us in the captain's cabin."

When we enter, Barbossa and Jack are hunched over something. When we enter they both hurriedly straighten and turn, Jack rolling up whatever they had been studying and shutting it in a drawer. It looks suspiciously like the circular piece of wood Jack had been madly searching for yesterday.

"Attleby, I assume ye have called us together te finally tell us where we be goin'?"

"You are correct. Gentlemen, we make for Mermaid Waters," Beckett calmly announces.

"And what fools errand be this?" Barbossa demands.

"None at all. One of the items required by the ritual of the Fountain is a mermaid's tear. And for that we need a mermaid."

"Whoa whoa whoa wait," Jack interrupts. "_One_ of the items, you say? And what be the other?"

"All in good time, my friend, all in good time," Beckett soothes.

"How do we know you're not just leading us on a wild goose chase?" accuses Barbossa.

"You shall just have to take my word for it," Beckett says, calm as can be. I don't think he'd be so calm if he could see that Barbossa is going for his sword.

I draw my knife from my belt before Barbossa can get his sword halfway out of its scabbard.

"What's going on?" Beckett asks, still calm.

"Barbossa has attempted to continue this discussion at sword point, but I really don't think he'd be heartless enough to cut down a blind, unarmed _guest_, would he?" Barbossa's eyes spit murderous fire, but Jack lays a hand on his arm and calmly intones,

"It's not worth it, mate." Barbossa reluctantly sheaths his sword and I put away my knife.

"Alright. Mermaid waters, that be our path. Assuming, of course, you know _where _to find it?" Beckett smiles slowly, and if I may say, evilly.

"I think you can find that out on your own. Good day to you," he says mysteriously. As he turns to the door and I accompany him out, I flick one last glance at Jack's face, and the expression there is one of almost… recognition?

"Say, Beckett, how can they possibly find it on their own? I thought _you_ knew where it was?" I ask him once out of earshot.

"I know only the name of the place, not where it is. Jack, however, has a remarkable possession on his person. It is a compass that points to whatever the holder wants most. Now, _Beckett _knows of this, but _Governor Attleby _does not. It is most likely inevitable that I have planted the seeds of suspicion among their minds with my cryptic clue, but it was unavoidable. I do not, after all, plan on keeping my identity secret forever."

"Why not just tell them now, get it done and over with?"

"Winnifred, information is like currency. Never spend when you can save."

**A/N: Did anyone catch the reference to the Florence and the Machine "Drumming Song" lyrics? No? Oh well. **


	11. Debts Repaid

**A/N: Argh, this one's late again! I had a bit of writers block on Friday and was busy most of the day Saturday, but here it finally is, in all its glory! And I think you guys will agree that it was worth the wait… but no spoilers! Just read and review! And on an apologetic note: I haven't seen OST in a while, so I am afraid there may be some inconsistencies in my characterization of the mermaids how they tried to capture them. I sincerely apologize for them, and if anyone notices anything glaring PM me or send a review and I will be glad to rectify it. **

"There be Whitecap Bay," announces Barbossa as the ship sails leisurely towards a large island. Beckett, Jack, Barbossa and I are all leaning against the rail, peering over the sides of the ship at the dark ocean.

"Ye may have heard of it before. Occasionally tales appear in the pubs of a ship gone too close and all its men dragged down to the depths by the mermaids," Jack narrates darkly.

"Nay, that be sirens that do that," Gibbs pipes up behind us. We all turn to stare at him and he shrugs. "'Tis what I've heard," he says by way of apology.

"I don't care what sirens be like. All I care is what mermaids be like. They are cruel creatures, and will attack unprovoked. They are said to be seductive enchantresses, and that no man can resist their charms and will follow them anywhere- even right down to the bottom of the ocean, where the filthy little bitches devour them," warns Barbossa.

"Well, if no man can resist them, what of a woman?" Barbossa eyes me critically and looks me up and down, as if sizing me up for bait.

"Ye may have a point there, lass," he drawls. He strokes his beard in thought. "We had been intendin' on sending the two rowboats an' the nets and waitin' fer dark to catch us some mermaids, as they fear the light. Perhaps you'd like to accompany the men, as a… safeguard?"

"Aye, I'd be willin'. After all, I've been a fisherwoman my whole life. I'm quite skilled with the rowing and the nets."

"Savvy!" exclaims Jack, clapping his hands together. "We sail at twilight. Be ready to disembark."

"Aye, captain!"

* * *

><p>Twilight has come, quicker than I would have expected, and before I climb into my boat Beckett takes hold of my arm.<p>

"Are you sure you want to do this, Winnifred?" he asks, worry clear in his voice.

"They need me, Beckett. These men are pirates, not fishermen. They will need someone to handle the nets. And besides, I am their last resort against the purported wiles of the mermaids. I shall not be harmed. I am… immune." Beckett nods, his lips pressed tightly together.

"Just be careful. I…"

_Beckett tried to say that he didn't want to lose her, but the words stick in his throat. Instead, he settles on_

"I don't want you getting hurt."

"Relax. Before ya know, the night will be over, and we will be closer than ever to the Fountain," I reassure him as I step into the small boat beside Gibbs and three other men. Glancing across at the other, I see Barbossa and Jack give the go ahead to cast off. I pick up my oars and start rowing.

Beckett waves to me from the ship before retreating out of sight. Now it is only the dark water I focus on, and the slivers of light that reflect on its peaks flicker and die one by one as the shipboard lights are doused. Nerves disappear in the familiar, steady motion of rowing. I dip the oars up, down, pull. Repeat. Up, down, pull. Soon we are in the middle of the open water just out of the bay, and it is here that we must wait.

The nets are ready, all hung neatly on the sides of the boats for us to grab when the time comes. As we sit waiting, though, I wonder just exactly _when_ the time will come.

"Sooo…" I begin, tapping my fingers against the side of the boat, "When d'ya suppose they'll show?"

"I dunno," says one, a tiny, bald man.

"Mebbe we should sing," says Gibbs. In return, he is graced with four blank stares. "I hear they be attracted to singin'," he explains.

"Seems as good an idea as any," I say, and take a breath. I prepare to sing the only thing that comes to mind.

_If only if only a seaman returned_

_From beyond the watery grave_

_Then I would be at your side, my dear,_

_A most devoted young slave_

_Heigh, ho, sea, oh,_

_The sky is stormy and grey_

_Heigh, ho, sea, oh,_

_The fisherman's lost his way_

_Remember, remember the warnings so clear_

_The clouds on the edge of the sea_

_It bodes no good for a seaman to sail_

_When the dawn's as red as the tales_

_Heigh, ho, sea, oh-_

Halfway through the second chorus there is suddenly a rippling movement on the water's surface…

Then the mermaids are all around, crowding the rowboat. Their pale hands reach up, beckoning seductively, and no one has time to react. Though they aren't attacking, the men are seemingly paralyzed.

"Say! Snap to it! The nets, quickly, men!" I cry, and two remember themselves enough to detach them from the sides. They hang limply in their hands a second later, forgotten compared to the mermaids. I glance quickly over to the other boat, half obscured in the darkness, and there is a similar lack of movement.

Well, if no one will act, _I _shall. I pick up a net and cast it with the expertise of a decade.

Instantly it is as if a storm has sprung up. The mermaids react; their slimy bodies a flurry of movement, antagonizing and swift. One, two jump clear out of the water and reach for the men, missing. Gibbs and the others have startled from their trances just in time to take up the nets and shout warnings to the other boat.

My net has ensnared nothing and I cast it again, but the buggers are too swift and they dart away quickly. Just as I am beginning to think it hopeless, a cry goes up from the other boat farther out from the bay:

"We got one! We got one!" Tension begins to build in me as I go for my oars and find them smashed to bits by the mermaids flailing tails. We're dead in the water and surrounded on all sides by murderous females.

I hear a cry off starboard as a man disappears beneath the turbid waters. Unless they are driven off, the mermaids will pick off the men one by one.

Daylight will not come soon enough to scare away the mermaids, but as I cast wildly about for the other boat, thinking of raising a cry for help, the looming hulk that is the lighthouse catches my eye. The idea blooms full formed in my mind, and as I dive neatly off the boat, I know what I have to do.

I swim like the devil for the shore, driven on by desperation. It takes a long time- too long, I fear, as I am out of sight of the boats all the way on shore and cannot see if the battle is yet lost. My clothes drip and cling to my body as I run full pelt for the stone lighthouse, impeding my progress. I take the steps two, three at a time, and when I reach the top I double over, panting for breath.

My arms are fit and toned, so the swim was not much of a bother, but it still taxes me as I lean for support against the wall and look over the bay. I turn and regard the contraption and my heart sinks as I realize I have nothing to light the oil lamp with. I run my hands over the ground in the dark, searching by feel alone- I suddenly have a shrewd idea how Beckett must feel every day- and my breath flies out of me in relief as I grasp a flint stone.

I work hurriedly to light it, and once the oil is feeding the flame I turn the large crank to direct the light out onto the bay.

It is so bright it briefly blinds me, but when I look again, the sea is crazy with the thrashing of terrified mermaids hightailing it- literally- from the boats. A ragged cheer rises from the men, and in turn, pride rises within me. I descend the steps more slowly this time and wait on the shore, waving my arms so they can see me. The _Black Pearl_ has sent out the longboat to pick up the survivors, and now it turns to the shore for me.

The men greet me heartily with three cheers, and even Jack says to me in an aside,

"Well done, mate."

When we get back to the ship, though the crew is congratulating me with heavy thumps on the back and shouted greetings, I have only eyes for one man, and I weave through the crowd to find him sitting tensely on a barrel. I approach him and place a hand on his shoulder.

"Winnifred!" Becket cries in relief upon recognizing my touch. "What happened? I heard cries, screaming…"

"The mermaids proved a bit more of a handful than we had anticipated. They had broken the oars and we were stranded, and so I jumped off and swam to shore, lighting the lighthouse to scare them away." The tension in Beckett's shoulders does not drain away as I had anticipated. He tells me cursorily,

"I'm glad you're alright," and he turns away from me and yells, rage quivering in his voice,

"Alright, Jack! Come here! You've toyed with me for the last time! I could handle it when it was _me _you were endangering, but I draw the line at Winnifred!" His words are like a blanket of silence descending on the crew as Jack extricates himself from the throng and pushes his way towards us.

"Last time? There's been a before? What is this "before" you speak of?"

"You betrayed me to the pirate lords, double crossed me and destroyed my ship. You and Jones left me for dead," Beckett spits, with all the venom of a pent up private vendetta. Jack starts, his eyes widening for a fraction of a second.

"Beckett," he gasps, truly shocked. "So it really is you. Your voice did sound somewhat… familiar. Back from the dead, eh, mate? Join the club! We're recently deceased ourselves!" he cries, pointing between him and Barbossa with his thumb. The older pirate has just arrived on the scene, pushing through the crowd to stand by Jack's side.

"_Beckett_?" exclaims Barbossa. "Thought ye were dead!"

"Apparently he ain't. Much like ourselves. Isn't it true that by rights, aye, we should both be dead? Yet here we arr, live as a barrel 'o monkeys." He looks at Barbossa and hesitates. "More 'o less." Barbossa throws him a dirty look, but Jack continues, addressing Beckett.

"But you see, you've got it all wrong. Jones had joined his own locker long before the Dutchman surfaced to turn on you. Nay, that wasn't Jones; it was _Turner_ at the helm. He stabbed the 'eart, 'e did. Fancied 'imself cap'n of the Dutchman…and there was the fact that he lay there dyin' an' if 'e 'and't stabbed the heart 'e'd be dead.

"Well, then. I suppose fate has meted out its own form of justice to him. All that remains is you."

"Beckett, don't do this-" I warn, putting a hand on his arm. "Remember what we're here for."

"Excuse me, Winnifred, if I take this chance to have my revenge on the man who ruined my life once, and has narrowly avoided ruining it for a second time!"

I take his chin and force his head to turn towards me, and even though I know he cannot see me I am trying to lend as much gravity as I can to what I am about to say.

"If I had truly died, Beckett… would your life indeed have been ruined?"

"A- a slip of the tongue, I- I…" he trails off, vainly trying to make an excuse. As I am silent, he reaches up and touches my face. He can _feel_ the disappointment on my features… and finally, he relents.

"Yes, Winnifred. Losing you would have been a very grave blow to me, because… I love you."

I save Beckett the trouble and kiss him right then and there, full on the lips, with the whole crew watching. I have never been happier than I am in this moment.

_Beckett was confused as Winnifred suddenly flung her arms around his neck, but only for a moment. She kissed him hard and passionately and then broke away, her arms still around his neck. Beckett placed his hands on her waist and brought her in for another kiss, this time slow and meaningful- and he savored every moment of it. He never wanted it to end._

"I love you too, Beckett."

"Cutler. Call me Cutler." I am grinning ear to ear like a foolish child, but I can't help it.

"Are you smiling, Winnifred?" he asks, gently placing his hands on my face. I close my eyes at his touch. He traces the outline of my mouth, and then slowly draws a finger down my nose.

"Aye… Cutler…" I say, trying the name out. It sounds good.

Suddenly the click of a pistol cocking startles me out of his arms, a place I am loathe to leave. As Beckett hears the click of the catch on Jack's pistol and he automatically turns.

"Now that his happy little moment is over, I believe _we _have some unfinished business to attend to, Beckett," Jack calmly announces. "You remind me of a cockroach. Ye can stamp on it once, but it never seems to want to die." He raises his gun and I shoulder my way in front of Beckett simultaneously, my body a shield.

"Nay, no one is to die today. If I recall correctly, I have just saved your life. So go ahead, shoot. It'll go through me first, though. Funny way of repaying a debt." Jack glares murderously at me, raising and lowering his pistol once, twice. Finally he engages the safety once more, though I think what cinches his decision is not my words but the crew's glares.

"The lass has a point," he concedes sullenly. "Throw 'im in the brig." I exhale sharply with the unfairness of his order, but I am helpless as three men seize Beckett and drag him down below decks and out of sight.

**A/N: Cliffhanger! Don't you just love to hate them? I find this story rapidly drawing to a close. I have about three or four more chapters planned, and that's the end! Are you excited for the finale? Stay tuned! If it's not all done by the end of next week, its because I am too busy attending the midnight premiere of Harry Potter and reading A Dance With Dragons (which comes out Tuesday) till my eyes fall out. But it will definetely be done in a fortnight, tops. And please leave a review for this chapter? I really want to know what you guys think of it! **


	12. The Escape

Dark descends and I stealthily emerge from my cabin. Like a thief in the night I creep down the passageway, down steps and into the bowels of the ship to the brig.

A man guards the entrance to it and stops me up short.

"What ye be wantin' in the brig, little missy?" he asks in slurred speech. He's either drunk or asleep on his feet. All the better for me.

"I'm here to bring the prisoner his food," I say confidently. "Captain's orders." The drunk/asleep sailor in front of me opens the door unquestioningly, and I raise an eyebrow at my good luck. I was expecting at least to have to knock him out with something.

As soon as the door closes behind me I throw aside the tray I brought with me and hurry to the cell where I can see Cutler, sitting despondently in a corner, knees drawn up to his chest.

"Cutler! It's me!" I whisper through the bars of his cell. His head jerks up and his body follows, feeling with his hands for the bars as he slowly walks towards my voice. I grasp his hand tight through the bars.

"Where are the keys, Cutler? We've gotta get you out of here."

"I don't know. I think the guard took them with him when he left."

"Damn," I swear under my breath. "Wait here, I'll go get them." As I disentangle my hand from his, Cutler tries to tell me to stop, but I pick up the rum bottle from the discarded tray and knock on the door for the guard to let me out. It looks as if I'm going to get to knock him out after all.

I bring the bottle down hard on his head and it shatters satisfyingly. I barely manage to catch his body and lower him quietly to the ground. A quick search of his person reveals the keys on a ring at his belt, and I am off with them, unlocking Cutler's cell with hurried hands.

When I open the door, he practically falls into me. Before I know it, I have wrapped myself in his arms and his head is on my shoulder. I hold him close, marveling at how _right_ this feels. He places a finger on my lips, and uses it as a guide as he leans in to kiss me.

He smiles a tremulous smile as we break apart and says quietly,

"I think you should know we're not alone," glancing over at the cell next to his. I don't know how I didn't notice it before, but in the corner huddles the form of a thin, beautiful woman, clad in a sailor's jacket and trousers. "We have to bring the mermaid with us,"

"That ain't a mermaid," I say, perplexed. "She ain't got a tail."

"Apparently, they transform once on land. Don't ask me how or why. We'll be needing her to give us her tear fresh when we reach the Fountain, as tears don't keep."

_Cutler didn't add that they would also need a sacrifice. He had been worrying over the matter for as long as he had been contemplating the Fountain, but at last, he found a suitable subject in the mermaid. Once he had her tear, she would drink from the chalice and bestow her life for his._

I unlock the cell unquestioningly. Her hands are bound in chains, but I remember the hellish night before and make no move to undo them.

As we hightail it out of there Cutler's stick catches my eye, propped against a corner with a mop and bucket. I snatch it up and press it into his hands with his thanks. My plan to get Cutler out of the brig is completed, and now to execute phase two: hijack a rowboat and row to the island.

The deck is clear of sentries, but nevertheless we keep low as I lead Cutler and the mermaid to a boat. I usher them in and am about to climb in myself when Cutler grabs hold of my arm.

"We need the compass, Winnifred," he tells me. Chagrin washes over me. _How _could I have forgotten about the compass?

"Aye. Lower the boat; I'll be naught but a minute."

"Remember, he keeps it on his person at all times!" he calls after me in a stage whisper. I am already gone, blending into the shadows of the ship. The door to the captain's cabin is, to my surprise, open. I can see through the gap to the desk, where a figure is slumped over unconscious. As I tiptoe over, I can see clearly the dreadlocks of Jack Sparrow. The compass hangs innocently at his belt, and I tug it off in one yank.

It's been almost… _too_ easy. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, and I draw my knife. On impulse, I whirl around and hold it to Jack Sparrow's unconscious form. I see a flicker of movement in the shadows across the room, as if a man had been about to step into the light, but thought better of it. However, if there was someone there, and he had seen me, our escape plan was foiled.

I have to make a choice. I can stay and depend on my hostage to get us off the ship safely, but then have to deal with pursuit as soon as we were clear. On the other hand, I could confront the shadow, but still be discovered and pursued.

A sneaky little voice in my head whispers _run_ and I listen. I dart for the door and hightail it as fast as my legs would carry me. As I fly out the door a shout follows me, in Barbossa's voice:

"Prisoner's escaping! All hands! Prisoner escape!" I will Cutler and the mermaid to be safely away and in the boat as I make a last-ditch attempt to avoid pursuit: I lean over the side of the other two boats and bundle the oars into my arms. I had intended on throwing them overboard, but they would be to easily retrieved. I run to our boat to stow them, but Cutler has already lowered it into the water.

"Cutler! Watch out below!" I cry as I let them fall down to the planking. Cutler duly covers his head, and then yells back up,

"What's going on? Have we been found out?"

"Aye! I'm coming down!" I yell, and I climb onto the rail and dive off just as the first of the pirates are rushing onto the deck.

I hit water with a thudding impact and swim for the boat.

"Cutler! Help me in!" I cry as I approach the side of the boat, and he puts out a hand to pull me in.

"Why did you throw down oars?" he asks, shoving one as he spoke out of the way. I pick up two and row for my life. Any minute now, the pirates would discover their absence, and I could not help but smile.

"To throw off pursuit, of course," I respond. "I don't suppose you had time to gather any provisions before you lowered the boat?"

"No, but luckily there were some already in the boat. It seems someone was also planning an escape."

"But who would want to leave the boat? There wasn't anyone else in the brig besides the mermaid, and no way she could have…" I trail off, looking at her now for the first time. Her skin is pale and her body is skinny. She _looks_ like a fish, even when she's human. I wonder if she can talk.

The shore approaches rapidly and I drag the boat up on the sand, helping Cutler and then the mermaid out. Dawn is approaching. By the faint light of the lanters I can see the flurry of activity aboard the ship. I am sure they will improvise some sort of oar-like implement soon, so I say crisply to Cutler,

"Let's get moving. Grab the food and follow me." As I set off down the beach towards the dark, dense jungle, I look behind me and see only the mermaid following. Cutler is wandering off in the wrong direction.

"Cutler!" I cry, and he turns around, only now realizing he is going the wrong way. I run to catch up to him.

"Here," I say, bringing some rope out of the boat, "We'll tie ourselves together. Use your walking stick to feel around where you're walking so you don't trip over anything. I think we'll have the mermaid walk in front of me." So saying I pass the end of the rope around my waist and through her handcuffs.

"Sorry, lass, but we can't have you running off," I say apologetically.

"I would not run. I would fight," the mermaid says unexpectedly. Her words hit me like a slap in the face.

"So ya can talk, after all? Good. Might make this whole thing easier." I ignore her implied threat and set off towards the jungle, prodding the mermaid along ahead of me. "We'll walk until daylight and keep on once the sun has risen. We're gonna try and put as much distance as we can between us and the _Pearl._"

**A/N: This update is short, probably because it wasn't really mean to be a chapter. They were supposed to start chalice-hunting in this one, but I found I required a little filler to get Cutler out of the brig. Oh, and BTW, I didn't get much feedback on the previous chapter, and I was just DYING to know how you guys liked the kiss/ identity-reveal scene. So review it? Please? **

**P.S. It was NOT just a coincidence that the boat was ready-stocked with provisions. I may write a separate fanfic about it, actually. Depends on how much time I have on my hands once I'm done with this.**


	13. Spaniards

**A/N: I have been a lazy author the past few days. I just got a new book (which came out Tuesday) and I have been reading almost nonstop since then. But I figured I'd better take a break from it and get back to work on this, so here it is, the third-to-last chapter. Enjoy!**

The jungle is dense, hot, and green. It is nothing like the tame grove of trees I called a jungle back on my island. The leaves brush at our clothing, leaving behind wet dew. Though we walk in the dark due to the fact that the mermaid cannot stand the light, the temperature is fit to boil water as we trudge on. Our pace is that of a snail owing to the fact that Cutler must inspect every inch of ground with his cane before taking a step if he is not to fall on his face.

The never-silence grates on my nerves. Even when I try to sleep, there is always some sound. Buzzing. Shuffling. Poking. Sniffling. The wind, when there is one, breathes through the trees and it feels as if we are stuck inside some green monster's belly. Before we sleep, we eat. Then we wake, and we walk.

It's not the walking that's the trouble, at least for me. But the mermaid is not used to using her legs. She has to make frequent stops to lean up against a tree and rest. Between her and Cutler, we have probably covered only twenty miles or less in the two days since we arrived on the island. I fear that the pirates may catch up to us soon; that they may be on their way to us at this very instant. By now they must have sent swimmers to the shore to retrieve the oars from where we left them. They have probably also taken our boat, and for the first time I wonder how we will get off this island once we have drunk of the Fountain.

Though the pirates are following us, I know they are not on the right track. We are the ones with the compass, after all. I place a hand on it where it hangs from my belt. It has been leading us inland for some time, but now we have turned east to avoid a giant chasm that yawned as far in both directions as the eye could see.

We have been walking along it for hours now, and the sky is beginning to grow light. Caves are up ahead and we walk towards them for shelter.

"We'll rest here for tonight," I announce, and I can see the relief on both of my companion's faces. I lean up against the wall of the cave, not untired myself, and briefly close my eyes. When I open them the mermaid stands over me, her wrists held out. I quietly loosen the rope that binds them, as has become our routine every morning. She wanders off as far as her rope (still tied to my waist) will allow and sits down, looking forlornly into the distance. Cutler unfastens his rope and sits beside me.

"There are some things I need to tell you, Winnifred," he says solemnly.

"Alright," I say, wary of his tone. "Go ahead."

"The ritual of the fountain requires two things, as you know. A mermaid's tear and the two silver chalices that are believed to be in the possession of Ponce de Leon and now somewhere aboard his land-locked ship on this island. But there is a… third thing, if you will. The ritual requires a sacrifice. While one person drinks from the chalice with the tear and the water, another drinks from the chalice without the tear, and their life energy is drained into the other person, granting them eternal life. I have determined that the mermaid shall be this sacrifice. I have to know if you have any… problems with that."

I regard him in silence for a moment. I would not bemoan her death, it is true. She and her sisters had done her best to kill me and the crew while we were out on the water. Then again, we _had_ been trying to capture them. What were my choices, though? Refuse to see her sacrificed, and have the whole trip be for naught? _Someone _was going to have to die if Cutler wanted his sight back, and I wanted that more than anything.

"No problems, Cutler. But I think we should at least tell 'er that she's being led to slaughter, aye?" Cutler squirms uncomfortably.

"Not… necessarily, my dear. We wouldn't want her trying to escape, now would we?"

"She must know what we're on about. I mean, she's not deaf. The men were bound to have talked about it on the ship, and we might've let slip something. She's got plenty of incentive to escape already."

"I suppose…" Cutler admits thoughtfully. "Now that you mention it…I wonder why hasn't she at least tried?" I glance surreptitiously over at her. She stares straight ahead, silent as the grave, as she has been this whole trek.

"I dunno. She seems a listless lass, that's for certain. Mayhaps she's… too tired?" Cutler nodded, accepting it as plausible.

"Seems so. Can I see the compass?" he asks, figuratively of course, the subject dropped.

"Aye. Here ya go," I say, unhooking it from my belt. He takes it in his hands and runs his fingers over it.

"Such power in such a small package… hm." He opens it, and the needle spins like a drunkard for a moment before settling to point directly at me.

"Where is it pointing?" he asks curiously. I have to smother a laugh.

"It's pointing at _me, _Cutler!" I say, mirth cracking my voice. He tries to swallow his smile, but it breaks through. I take the compass from him and return it to my belt.

"I think I should keep this. At least I know where our priorities lie!" And to take the rebuke off my words I kiss him suddenly. That only makes him smile more.

_Cutler knew the compass would point towards Winnifred. He had suspected for a while now that his priorities had shifted over to the fisherwoman, and he had just confirmed it. It did not worry him that the Fountain was not his main goal, because his main goal had already been achieved: Winnifred was his. The Fountain would only allow them to be together more fully. _

As I kiss him, I can saw out of the corner of my eye the mermaid. Her expression is one of infinite sadness. Truly, she is the most melancholy being I have ever known. Whatever the source of her sadness, be it her captivity or some unknown calamity, at least she will not have to bear it long. Death is coming for her, as sure as the dawn will kill her.

We sleep peacefully and undisturbed that day, and when the night comes, so does the rain. At first I am excited to let the warm drops spread over my face and body, but soon I am soaked to the skin and I do not like it as much. We finally reach the end of the chasm and start around the other side halfway through the night, back on track of the compass's heading.

At the end of two more nights' traveling we come across an obstacle even harder to avoid than the chasm: a Spanish encampment.

"How many are there?" Cutler asks as we take cover in a grove of palm trees, surveying the array of tents, tables, and uniformed soldiers before us.

"'Bout forty, give or take five," I answer. "They look a solemn bunch, these Spaniards."

"Spaniards _always_ look like that, Winnifred," Cutler replies.

"What shall we do?"

"We'll have to make our way around, or wait until they pass on," he says quietly.

"But what if they have the chalices? The compass points right at 'em." Cutler thinks for a moment, head lowered.

"Walk around the perimeter of the camp and see if the compass wavers. If it does, we know they have it."

"Aye. I'll be right back." Cutler grabs my arm as I get up.

"Be careful. The Spanish are not only solemn, they have a nasty temperament and loose trigger fingers."

"I shall be silent as a mute dog," I reassure, untying the mermaid's lead from my waist and retying it around a tree. "The mermaid is tied to the palm next to ya. I'm not gonna be a moment." With that I am stealing into the night for the second time this week, sneaking around the camp's outskirts as silently as the jungle underbrush will allow.

I hold the compass in front of me, one eye on its face and another on the ground. I probably should have been keeping one on what was in front of me, though, for suddenly the click of a musket stops me up short and reveals to me the presence of a Spanish soldier I would have walked right into in another moment.

"Quien va?" he yells. He repeats whatever he just said, but he might as well be speaking gibberish for all I can understand him.

Fleetingly I wonder if Beckett could speak Spanish, but even if he did it would do me no good in the here and now. My brain furiously races to concoct a cover story that won't get me blown to bits by a bullet, and as my eye falls on the compass an idea hits me.

"I'm lost," I say, as pitiful and desperately as I can manage while gesturing to the compass. Surely he wouldn't shoot a lost, unarmed woman? "Lost," I repeat, when all the reply I get is a blank stare.

Another guard walks up behind him suddenly, attracted by the commotion. They converse rapidly in gibberish. Finally the second one turns to me and says in heavily accented English,

"Who are you and what are you doing here?"

"My name is Winnifred, and I don't know what I'm doing here. I was attacked by mermaids and shipwrecked here, and I'm trying to find my way back to the bay but I've gotten lost." He gives me a shifty-eyed look, as if he doesn't quite believe me.

"You're a bit far from the shore to have wandered off, young miss…." I play my trump card.

"I think my compass is broken," I say, holding it up to demonstrate. The man takes it from me and as the needle spins crazily he reluctantly says,

"I suppose that's alright, then. Lieutenant, lower your weapon. Let's have some food and a new compass for this young lady," he commands. The other salutes and promptly walks off towards the camp. The English speaker leads me after him, and I have no choice but to hope they release me soon so I can get back to Cutler and the mermaid.

He sits me down at a rough hewn table and places a plate of bread and hard cheese in front of me. I realize that if I really was lost in this forest, I should be hungry, so I tear into it eagerly, even though I barely ate an hour ago. The young lieutenant returns with a new compass as I am polishing off the last of the bread.

"Here you are. The bay is south east of here. When you reach the chasm go west until it ends, then turn east again. You should be back in no time. I am to escort you out of the camp."

"Thank you, sir. Thank you very much." I am practically tripping over myself to get out of my chair and follow him. As we are leaving we pass through the center of the encampment, where a large fire is lit against the night's darkness. A man with long black hair sits at a large table behind it, polishing…

_Polishing two silver chalices. _I stop short as if I've hit a brick wall. The lieutenant draws ahead ten feet or so before he realizes his charge is no longer following.

"Miss? Is something wrong?"

"N-no, not at all," I stutter, shocked. I force my feet to move, storing the layout of the camp in my memory. I know I will need to rewalk this path to get the chalices, though _how _and _when _I do not know.

As soon as the man has led me out of the camp and is out of sight again, I tear off for the palm tree grove where Cutler is waiting.

"Winnifred? Is that you?" he asks as he hears my footsteps.

"Aye, it's me."

"What took you so long?"

"I ran into a couple of patrols. Cutler, we have a problem."

"Elaborate," he says, his voice tight.

"They've got the cups. There's this guy sittin' at a table in the middle of the camp, and 'e's polishin' 'em as we speak. It's gonna be right tough to steal them from under their very noses."

"Then we must ensure their noses are elsewhere. Winnifred, we are in need of a distraction."

"Can you speak Spanish?" I ask suddenly, half an idea plucking at my mind.

"Yes. Why do you ask?" A devious smile steals over my face.

"I have an idea. Half an idea, really. But I'm sure it's going to work."

A quarter of an hour later I have positioned myself as close to the central table and the chalices as I can from outside the encampment. If I strain my neck, I can see the man with the long black hair polishing them still. I have only to wait for Cutler's signal before I am to run in and make off with them.

In no time at all I hear Cutler's voice raised high, yelling what I know to be "Intruders! Enemy approaching!", but what sounds like "Intrusos! Enemigo que se aproxime!" in Spanish. As the soldiers all run off towards the source of the alarm, grabbing up muskets and bayonets as they go, I race in the opposite direction, hoping against hope I won't be noticed. The black haired man throws the cup he was holding haphazardly into a chest and darts up at the alarm, looking around with keen eyes.

He suddenly runs off yelling in Spanish, and I take my chance, running half crouched up to the table and swiping the chest. As soon as I am back under the cover of the trees I am sprinting like a bat out of hell, cackling madly all the while with elation. I almost run right past Cutler and the mermaid, hidden far away from the camp in a more secluded clearing, well away from the supposed sight of the alarm.

"Have you got them?" He asks eagerly.

"Yeah," I say, triumphant. "I've got 'em. Right out from under their noses."

**A/N: Only two more chapters left! The Fountain is close at hand! I know that I used to update practically every day, but that is going to be impossible for a while given the distraction of my new book. It is in the living room right now. Out of sight, out of mind? Nope. Not for me. It calls… my precious… haha JK :P Stick with me people! Chapter 15 will be posted by the end of next week, I promise!** **And for any of my readers who happen to speak Spanish, sorry for any mistakes in the language I may have made. The extent of my Spanish= going online to Google translate. **


	14. Sacrifice

**A/N: Here it is, the long awaited finale of my masterpiece: the penultimate chapter. It is non-canon compliant, BTW, as I couldn't make it work within the confines of the movie, so I tweaked it. Nothing major… on another note, special thanks to TheMarauderBandit and Countcresent for pointing out a major inconsistency in the last chapter… hehe I was pretty embarrassed when suddenly out of the blue Beckett could see again, but it's since been fixed. WARNING: The following contains sap. And now, without further ado, the Fountain of Youth awaits…**

The beautiful natural cave we find ourselves in after the mist clears is nothing compared to the beauty of the fountain. A moss covered stone arch covering a stone bowl, into which water drips from the arch… it is surreal to finally look upon that which we have been laboring towards for so long. I take Cutler's hand as I lead us three towards it and say to him quietly,

"I wish you could see this."

"I will, soon enough." I walk right up to the Fountain and run my hand over it, feeling the cool rock and moss beneath my fingers. I swiftly unloop the rope that holds us all together and I retie the mermaid's end to the arch.

"The chalices?" I prompt, and Cutler hands one to me. I approach the mermaid, down to business. "Alright. Erm…" I pause. I can't just say "OK, time to cry now," can I? Though I might as well tell her "time to die" instead. Perhaps that will elicit an emotion. It's worth a shot.

"Alright, mermaid."

"My name is Mannalin," the mermaid says suddenly, her voice startling me. I have not heard her speak once on the whole trip- her voice is sweet and reminds me of a mother's.

"Mannalin, then. I have some news for you. We are going to sacrifice you to the Fountain so Cutler here can get his sight back." I scrutinize her face for any sign of emotion.

"Bit blunt, don't you think?" Cutler whispers in my ear. I shrug. The mermaid is not crying, though. Instead, she is smiling.

"I don't think so." My expression hardens, and I draw my knife to enforce my seriousness.

"Oh, ya don't? Well, waddya think I have this 'ere knife for, then?" Mannalin laughs, a light, warm sound.

"You cannot kill me. You need my tear, and dead mermaids do not cry. I am afraid you have no bargaining chip." I underestimated the mermaid. Seems she has a bit more cunning than I had though.

"Cutler, you're better at this than me. Convince her." He nods and begins,

"I admit you have a point. As long as we are short a tear, we shall not kill you. So here's the plan: you give us a tear, and we set you free." I glance sharply at Cutler, wondering where the hell he's going with this. The mermaid obviously wonders the same thing.

"You swear this?" She asks skeptically.

"I do. And I never go back on my word." At that, I know Cutler is lying. He may be an honest man for the most part, but we have already double-crossed Captain Jack and Barbossa just to get here, and I have no idea how many more people before I knew him. All at once, his plan falls into place in my mind. He does not intend to let her go.

For the first time, a squick of guilt pricks my conscience. Mannalin squirms a bit in her bonds, and then finally nods.

"I will give you a tear," she concedes. Amazingly, she conjures forth a tear with hardly a sob, and I catch it in the goblet. I am momentarily distracted as it slides into the cup, and when I look back up, a cold hand of iron grips my heart in fear as the mermaid triumphantly holds up the ropes which had previously bound her hands together, tosses them aside languidly, and says scornfully,

"I knew you would not keep your promise. I have taken matters into my own hands. Sayonara, my capturers," and darts off, diving head first into a pool a few feet away. In half a heartbeat, she is gone.

"Where did she go? Has she escaped?" Cutler demands of me. My whole body feels like all the air has suddenly been sucked out of it.

"Aye. She's gone, all right. Slippery fish wriggled out of her bonds when we wairn't looking. We have a tear, but no sacrifice." We both sit in silence, pondering our dreadful turn of luck.

"I suppose…" Cutler begins, "we could capture a Spanish soldier…" I look at him in astonishment.

"And what have any of those Spaniards done to deserve death?" I demand. Cutler is silent. "I could understand sacrificing the mermaid, aye, because she and her ilk were right bitches to me in those boats. But I'll not abide murdering an innocent man," I inform him forcefully.

"What's a nameless man's life compared to my sight, though?" He asks. His heartlessness momentarily stuns me. I guess it all comes out, in the end. The good and the bad of a person. That which you hide, or had hoped to have purged. And this is the end. I see now the cruelty that Cutler once possessed in his former life. "Will everything we've worked for be for naught because of this? Can we just turn back, return to the island? What a life for you! Forever waiting hand and foot on a blind man!" he adds desperately.

"No, no, don't you see?" I exclaim exasperatedly, "It's not like that! At first, we were bound by necessity and need, but now it is only love that keeps us together, nothing else! I thought that mattered? Has the past year meant nothing to you?

"More than you can ever know-"

"So how can you stand there and call me a slave? You have forced me to do nothing; everything I did was of my own will- all for you! Because I love you, Cutler! Because I love you, and I would do anything for you!"

_I would do anything for you. _The words ring in my head and the full truth of them hits me head on like a collision force. I would do anything for him, and that includes taking the mermaid's place.

"I'll be the sacrifice, Cutler," I say quietly with nary a quaver in my voice.

"No," says Cutler, his mouth a thin line and his hands white on his stick, "no, I won't let you. I won't allow you to. Once I may have let you, once regaining my sight would have been everything- but I am not the man I was, Winnifred. Power, control means nothing to me anymore. It doesn't matter if I leave this place still blind, all that matters is that I leave here with you! I won't have you die. Don't ask me to take your life to heal myself. Do not."

"You don't mean that!" I gasp, rounding on him. "I don't believe you! I don't believe for one second that power means nothing to you. Don't pretend you are someone you're not."

I have wounded Cutler with my blatant lie; I can see it in the way his lips quiver for a fraction of a second. But I must. I must break him in order to make him whole again; I have to convince him to let me sacrifice myself for him.

"Are you saying this is an act? That I am still the power hungry tycoon I was before I almost drowned? That is gone! Washed away with the tide! Can't you _see_ that?"

I gasp, trying to hold back a sob. Slowly I walk towards Cutler. I feel the pain I must be giving him with my lies as if it is my own. Before I die, I want to see his face one more time, without the cloth. His hand almost stops me as I unwind it, but I persist and his hand falls back to his side. When I remove the cloth and I behold his scarred visage, I can almost discern how he must have looked before the burns. He is handsome, unbelievably so, even with the scars.

"I won't let you do this, Winnifred," he warns. I think he sees through my lies. He extends a hand as if to stop me. He is facing the wrong direction, though, as I have inched around him and snatched up the goblets myself.

"And I won't let you stop me." I reach to my neck and tear off the cameo of my mother resting there that I took from my father after he died.

"Here," I say, wrapping it around the stem of the goblet with the mermaid tear and thrusting it into his hand. "Me father always said I was the spitting image of my mum. When you can see again, remember me by it, will you?"

_Cutler's fingers found the cameo and traced its carvings frantically over and over. He wanted to throw it to the ground. This image was not his Winnifred, it would never be. The woman he loved would always be to him the smell of the sea, the rough texture of her hand in his, the sound of her voice echoing the words of Shakespeare on a lonely night in a quiet hut. He didn't give a damn what she looked like, he didn't give a damn if he ever saw again, he only cared if he could live the rest of his life with her, always and forever together, never apart. Why didn't she understand that?_

"Winnifred, don't do this! I won't lose you, I can't! You are my eyes! My love, my love, WINNIFRED!" His voice is all desperation as he pleads with me. I am crying now, but the tears make no difference, cannot weather away at my resolve. I scoop up some water from the Fountain into my cup.

"I won't need to be your eyes once you drink this, don't you understand? I want to do this," I tell him. "Once I drink this, I don't know if I will die immediately or not, so I suggest you drink quickly afterwards so my life energy is not wasted."

"Winnifred-" Cutler begs once more, but I pretend to not hear.

"Drink," I order, and he does, his hand shaking all the while. A faint smile passes over my lips as I follow suit.

The last thing I know is the metallic taste of the chalice against my lips, the cold sluice of water down my throat-

_Cutler heard a thump, and even without seeing, he knew it was the sound of Winnifred's body slumping lifelessly to the ground. He dropped to his knees to feel about for her; and his hand found contact with her arm. In an instant he was cradling her against his body, rocking back and forth, and tears were streaming down his eyes, blurring his vision… his vision?_

_Slowly he opened his eyes…_

_Winnifred lay in front of him, her large featured face still in death. Large nose, large eyes, large lips. Unkempt brown dreadlocks framed her round face and fell uncut to her waist, bound haphazardly with hemp halfway down. Her skin was sun browned and weather beaten, her arms sculpted and lean, her legs short and her torso long. She was not beautiful. Cutler had seen many a more stunning woman and felt his heart bestir none. Winnifred, on the other hand, had set his heart to beating so many times with just a voice, a touch- but no more. No more. _

_He brushed a stray lock away from her face and let himself weep, feeling his body shake and quiver with the force of the sobs, his world narrowing down until it was only Winnifred he saw, only Winnifred he registered. It was because of this that he did not notice the stealthy approach of the mermaid coming back, hovering in the water with her arms folded on shore and regarding him curiously. _

_When he finally did look up and notice her, his grief immediately boiled to rage._

"_What are you doing here?" He demanded, his voice breaking. "It's your fault that she's _dead_, you know!" He accused, practically spitting out the word "death." _

"_It's the girl's own fault. She took the goblet, and she drank of its contents, in full knowledge of the consequences."_

"_Because of _you!_" he screamed at her. "Because you _escaped!_ We had a _plan, _we had the chalices, the tear, the Fountain, the sacrifice- all ruined in a moment, because you escaped! Betrayed once more, at the last possible moment… betrayed once more…" his voice trailed off as he looked down at Winnifred, tears brimming in his eyes again. "She's dead. I can see her face, but it's for naught, as she's dead." _

_The mermaid looked at him askance for a moment, and then suddenly drew herself up out of the water._

"_You can save her, you know." Cutler's head shot up so fast he cricked his neck._

"_How?" The single syllable was dripping with desperation._

"_Drink from the Fountain, but this time, give her the tear." Cutler's brows drew together, contemplating her idea._

"_Could it work? Can an immortal bring back a mortal from the dead?" _And what would happen to me? _He added in his mind._ _He quickly decided that it was beside the point. "Would you lend me a tear?" The mermaid nodded._

"_Willingly." To his amazement, before his eyes a tear rolled down her cheek, as if bidden. She caught it in a cup and held both under the fountain for a moment before handing them to Cutler. "Good luck." Cutler nodded, and in one swift moment downed the tear-less concoction. It was harder to get the water down Winnifred's throat, but eventually a trickled permeated. He sat back in tense expectation, every molecule of him primed for some feeling, some stirring of life that might betray the fact that it had worked…_

_Winnifred's body gave a jerk, spasmed for a moment, and then she opened her eyes_

_A smile broke out on Cutler's face, a smile happier than any he had ever smiled, and he laughed aloud as Winnifred sat up, a bemused look on her face. _

Suddenly I am blinking, and Cutler looms above me, laughing. I have no idea what has just transpired… shouldn't I be dead? Perhaps I have gone to heaven. I could get used to being dead if this is what heaven looks like. But suddenly, as Cutler shouts joyfully,

"It worked! It worked! Oh, thank God, it _worked_!" I have a suspicion I am not in heaven.

"What worked, Cutler? The Fountain? I though I had cured you… you…" I only notice now his face- his face is free of scars! It is whole, and handsome, and _he is looking at me. _Actually looking at me! He can see! I throw my arms around him breathlessly and say in his ear,

"You can see, so why ain't I dead? Isn't that what the ritual requires? A sacrifice?" Mannalin answers me.

"You made yourself a sacrifice for him, and he has just returned the favor. Only once have I heard from my sisters of this being done before, but never in my lifetime. A life was traded for an immortality, and now an immortality has been traded for a life. You live once more and your love can see, but neither of you shall live forever."

"Is it true, Cutler? You saved me?" I can feel him shaking beneath my arms. I smooth his shoulders to calm him.

"Yes. As the mermaid said… a debt repaid. God knows I owed you one." I say the only thing I can.

"Thank you." He removes my arms from his neck and holds me at arms length, with one hand tracing my jaw.

_For the first time, Cutler can see the woman with whom he has spent a year with. His eyes rake over her features, drinking her in, reveling in his sight one more. The plain, rough-hewn features of the fisherwoman before him are the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. He owes much and more to this woman- his life, his sight, and his love. It is the very least he can do to thank her._

"Don't thank me, Winnifred. It is you who deserves it. Thank you. Thank you a thousand times over, for everything."

_For once he can see what he is doing and he kissed her, long and hard, tangling his hands in her hair as she slipped her hands around his waist. He heard a slight splash somewhere behind Winnifred. _The mermaid, Mannalin, _he thinks to himself. He's glad he did not kill her after all._

**A/N: Hmmm… I'm not sure if I'm happy the way this turned out, might have been a bit too fluffy… but I guess it's for you guys to decide that. **

**Put down those remotes, and don't go anywhere, because this story isn't done yet! Wanna find out what happens next for Winnifred and Cutler? Stay tuned for the epilogue, coming up tomorrow! (And don't forget to leave a review!)**


	15. Epilogue

**A/N: The song at the end is by Ingrid Michaelson and is called Far Away. I thought the lyrics fit this story and so decided to include it. The song is rather pretty by itself- go on YouTube and listen to it; it's really good. **

ONE MONTH LATER

_We found Ponce de Leon's ship and built a raft out of the wood. We sailed the raft to the nearest port and bartered passage back to my island with the mysterious compass I stole from Jack. I was loathe to leave it, but I realized I wouldn't need it where we were going._

_Cutler wanted to go back to my island, but at first, I did not. He managed to convince me. He had seen enough of the world to last his lifetime, and though I had not, we agreed that our lives on the island need not be in the solitude I had before lived. Every fortnight we go to port, and sometimes more often, mingling with the people, trading news and stories, and generally just… _living.

TWO MONTHS LATER

It wass a small ceremony, just us and the priest and Brother James as witness. I didn't see why we needed to get married; we knew we loved each other and had already decided to spend the rest of our lives together. Why did we need to say some words to confirm it? But Cutler insisted, and it really was no skin off my back. In fact, I kind of enjoyed it. We are officially man and wife when my skiff, dutifully maintained by Brother James, carries us (Bull included, barking happily in the aft of the boat at the return of his master) back to my island. Our journey has come full circle.

SIX MONTHS LATER

My belly grows larger by the day, and Cutler is fond of laying a hand on it and whispering things to the baby growing inside me. Cutler says that if it's a boy he wants to name him Davos. I think Davos Beckett has a nice ring to it. But if it's a girl, I will name her Mannalin. In a way, we owe this life to her, and I want her to be remembered.

We've been enlarging the hut. Cutler's no good with tools, but he's strong enough to carry the wood and now that he can see he takes simple pleasure in driving the nails home with a hammer. I guess you really can't call it a hut anymore; its more like a house now. We go to the mainland once fortnightly for supplies, and I have begun to sell more fish with the frequent visits. I like seeing the people and talking to them. I still prize our solitude, but I have come to realize that what I always considered before meeting Cutler as peaceful solitude was no more than uninterrupted loneliness. I will forever be grateful to the tide for washing him up on the beach, and for whatever intuition stayed my hand from tossing his body overboard.

ONE YEAR LATER

Beckett and I sit on our porch, built by our own two hands. I think is oddly fitting that the hut has been lived in by three generations of my family- my father, myself, and now baby Mannalin.

"Your name does not mean peace for naught," Beckett says out of the blue. I am momentarily stunned, but then the flood of a memory washes over me of a day on our hike to the fountain when sleep had been elusive for me. I had said into the silence,

"You know, Cutler, I think my father was wrong." Cutler said sleepily,

"About what, my dear?"

"He always told me that the island was peace, and the mainland was chaos. That's why he named me Winnifred, you know. It means peace. I agree with the island part, but not so much about the mainland. It's chaos, but an _orderly_ chaos. A fun chaos." Cutler never replied, and I thought him asleep, but apparently he had been listening, and he had remembered… it touches me more than I would have expected.

"You have made me whole again, Winnifred. Not just by helping me find the Fountain. Every day has contributed, you have contributed, little Mannalin, too, and every time you tell me you love me, I feel alive."

"I love you, then."

"I love you too."

_**Fin**_

* * *

><p><em>I will live my life as a lobsterman's wife on an island in the blue bay<em>

_He will take care of me, he will smell like the sea,_

_And close to my heart he'll always stay_

_I will bear three girls all with strawberry curls, little Ella and Nelly and Faye_

_While I'm combing their hair, I will catch his warm stare_

_On our island in the blue bay_

_Far away far away, I want to go far away_

_To a new life on a new shore line_

_Where the water is blue and the people are new_

_To another island, in another life_

_There's a boy next to me and he never will be anything but a boy at the bar_

_And I think he's the tops, he's where everything stops_

_How I love to love him from afar_

_When he walks right pass me then I finally see on this bar stool I can't stay_

_So I'm taking my frown to a far distant town_

_On an island in the blue bay. _

_Far away far away, I want to go far away_

_To a new life on a new shore line_

_Where the water is blue and the people are new_

_To another island, in another life_

_I want to go far away_

_Away away, I want to go far away, away, away_

_I want to go far away, far away_

_Where the water is blue and the people are new_

_To another life, to another life_

_To another shoreline, in another life_

* * *

><p><strong>AN: And that's it. The end. It's finally finished, and I'm oddly proud of it. I admit it could do with some editing, but my first priority was always getting the chapters out ASAP, so thorough read-overs sort of fell through the floor. I think someday I will go through and revise it, but not today, and not this summer. I think one day, after I've completed that editing task, I will write a companion piece to this that follows Barbossa and Jack on the Pearl about the time that Winifred and Cutler are there. Remember when I teased you with the mystery of why the rowboat was already stocked with provisions? And what ever happened to all their gold? One of many questions I intend to answer… assuming you'd like to know. Tell me what you think in a review. **

**I hope you all enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it, and I would very much enjoy a last review from all of you who have stuck with the story till the end so I can hear your overall opinions. (Yes, that means you, anonymous people who read without reviewing. I don't hold it against you, but you DO owe me.) Auf Weidersehen and Good night!**


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